


let the chips fall where they may

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bletchley Park, British History, F/M, Friends to Lovers, German History, Scottish history, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2019-10-25 06:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 74,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17719625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: March 1943. German U-boats have changed the Wetterkurzschlüssel, one of their code reference books used for Enigma machine ciphers, blocking Bletchley from any access to vital naval signal intelligence. The possibility of a German spy within the British codebreakers’ ranks looms and Jemma Simmons and Leopold Fitz are caught in the crossfire.[or]“What did you really do during the war, Fitz?”“Are you paying attention?” He paused. “Good.”





	1. London Calling

**Author's Note:**

> In 1942 a warning notice was issued to the staff at Bletchley, it said "Do not talk at meals. Do not talk in the transport. Do not talk when travelling. Do not talk in the billet. Do not talk by your own fireside. Be careful even in your own hut". Please keep it in mind while reading the story.
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1947

 

The rain had long stopped falling. The sun was shining brightly against the clear blue sky, lonely white clouds and solitary seagulls as the only company. No planes, loud and getting closer, coming from the continent. No familiar rumbling of machines and engines followed by the distinctive whistle of bombs being dropped and accelerating before hitting the ground and exploding, the aftermath of their impact leaving nothing but destruction - fire, trembling ground and buildings coming down as if made of paper. No sirens either, cutting the air with their piercing sounds. Just caws and the rustling of waves against the pebbled shore filling the silence.

Puddles starred the streets, their water brown and muddy, distorted reflections on their dust covered surfaces. An old church towered itself against the sunlight - black, ancient and everlasting - and in front of it a child and its dog jumped from puddle to puddle under the stern look of an elderly lady. Careless in their activity, they were enjoying the delight that came from it - a wiggling tale, squeals and laughter that lifted themselves into the air and echoed down the empty street.

Mud everywhere: on steps, on pavements, on uneven and ruined roads, on rubber boots that had been left drying in backyards and halls.

Mud everywhere: the entire village seemed to be covered in it.

Brown and grey, spots of green, shy flowers starting to blossom. Branches of trees that weren't quite as naked as they had been the week before. White cliffs covered in glass that looked over the deep blue sea: that was the village. Everything there appeared brighter and more luminous than it had before, the colours sharper and much more vivid, and there was nothing there to give away the fact that there had been a downpour that same morning save for the drops that still lingered on windows and the smell of petrichor. Soon the smell would be flowery and salty too - a crisp smell, a fresh smell with poignant undertones coming from not so distant farms. The smell of spring, the smell of hope, the smell of life, filling everyone's nostrils.

Hours that felt like a lifetime, the past appearing like a foreign country. In the present everything was different from what had once been.

All Jemma could think of was taking Fitz's hand - skin resting on skin, a warm and comforting touch - but didn't, focusing her attention on the golden and intricate patterns that the sunlight was creating on the dark kitchen table. Dust dancing in the air and the long, shapeless shadow of the vase that was sitting on the window sill made it look like a scene out of a children's book: something monstrous, perhaps, painted in watercolours that had long faded away. Something exciting, something adventurous, something so incredible to look appealing - she had had enough excitement to last a lifetime, now she was just tired.

"What time does your train leave?" She asked.

 "Half past four. And there's another one at seven, I think."

The one at half past four had to do. Jemma needed him gone.

As she pushed her chair back to get up its legs screeched against the floor, a loud and unpleasant noise that made her skin crawl. A quick attempt at escaping mattered more than a loss of equilibrium and, in a greater scheme, a falling chair meant next to nothing, In fact, of this Jemma was sure, it would have been a welcomed distraction for the two of them. An excuse, a turning point, something to focus on that wasn't them.

She couldn't do it anymore and the urge to scream it out loud was impending. It was exhausting to sit there and look at him, studying every movement carefully and inquisitively, wondering what was going on in his head, while knowing that they had done everything wrong.

Looking back it was impossible for her to define the exact moment when things had started to unravel and run away from them. The early afternoon had been effortless, every touch had borne the same tenderness and easiness that once had painted all their actions - soft, smooth edges, a desire for more. Clear heads, later, as they had been back in their clothes: mathematical precision in every movement, carefully articulated sentences that they had poured out in a grammatical fashion - their respective accents thicker than usual. Now all that remained was silence and the looming, dreaded feeling of having used up every possibility.

They had reached the limits and settled for neutrality. There was no longer anything to say for overdue explanations had already been given, curiosity and anticipation had faded away too. They had shared brief anecdotes about their lives, faltering voices as they had realised that there was now no reason for the two of them to be sitting there and talking. There was no longer space for anything but small talk which appeared to be inappropriate. There must have been something to say that wouldn't expose them further, that wouldn't enhance the feeling of vulnerability and rawness, but they couldn't find it. There was nothing but companiable near-silence, that bound them as much as it distanced them,  as they sat there with their minds running wild. There was no longer a forking path in front of them nor the delicious lingering that came with it, just the two of them pushing down all the questions they so painfully wanted to make.

Jemma looked at the clock standing in a corner. It was late, but if he were to leave the house in the next thirty minutes, he'd arrive at the train station just in time to buy his ticket and catch the first train to London without any fuss.

"Do we want to talk about what happened just now?"

Him sharing his story or the sex? There was nothing to say on the former and if he wasn't to specify what it was all about, she would - ahead with the assumptions and the easy way out. It was a thrilling, familiar and self-destructive game that of putting words into the other's mouth - the feeling it provided was like a rush of adrenaline as they tried their way of making each other distinct, proving everyone else wrong.

"Did I miss something?" She paused. "It was nice and that is all I've got to say about the matter."

"I'm surprised I still remembered what to do." He laughed. It seemed called for and necessary, to lighten the mood or to highlight how things between them could go back being as simple as they had once been. As if they could go back being the same two people they had been before.

But could they? Were they those two people still? There were histories and fear to take into consideration, surely a laugh could not cancel them out. Wartime and everything that had happened during those years had changed them, it was inevitable. Where were those two people who had once attended Cambridge together and who were they now? Who were they if not strangers  looked at accusingly by the ghosts of their former selves? They were two strangers sharing memories that prevented them from leaving the other alone.

Her gaze drifted to the telephone at the entrance, a red spot, barely visible in its entirety from her spot next to the kitchen counter; the urge to get there was tempting and tantalising in equal measure for it would end everything once and for all. They had played each other once, they had been responsible for each other's downfall, but was the game still on? One call was all it took. One phone call and gone would be the doubts and the confusion they brought along, gone would be the limbo and the quagmire she had spent years walking in - it was a future she was looking forward to. The number she knew, fresh in her memory as on the day it had been given to her, the code-word too was familiar - a direct connection, the matter could be solved in a matter of minutes.

She had seen Fitz, now life could begin again.

"Which is my way of saying that there hasn't been anyone else." Fitz finished.

Her attention drifted back to him. "Same. There is no one else."

"Good. I mean, if you're happy."

"I know what you mean, Fitz."

He got up - white porcelain cup in his hand, fingers holding the saucer firmly and carefully. Spoon clattering at every movement, ready to fall. How could he look so much at ease, so relaxed, when she herself was panicking? When a crippling sense of paranoia was washing over her in waves?

Her accelerated heartbeat was all she could hear, it echoed in her ears and got louder and louder with the same speed with which her breath was shortening. Sweat covered her palms, leaving them sticky and gross, and her hands were shaking; Jemma clenched her fists - nail digging into her skin, knuckles turning white. Everything she had once stood for had crumbled and was now gone completely: all that remained between them was a broken oath of secrecy that had shaped their lives for the longest of times.

So how could Fitz, this polished version of himself, stand there and not feel the shadows of the past fill the room? Two people at sunrise, she could picture them clearly now and in full details - sharp edges unaltered by the passage of time. One walking aimlessly, shaking, scared and alone; The other smoking a cigarette, high on Benzedrine, three hours of sleep in a week and brain as sharp as ever.

She had a life now, she wouldn't let it go to ruin again. Self-composure would be regained as soon as Fitz would leave, that was something she looked forward to. Fitz would take his train at half past four, she wouldn't ask him to stay for dinner the same way she wasn't going to ask him to stay the night - tempting, but not as tempting as oblivion and tranquillity, lying in the dark and knowing everything.

"Any plans for the evening?" Fitz asked, smiling.

"Dinner at a colleague's house... belated wedding celebrations. And I've got to prepare a lesson, tomorrow's Monday."

"I know that."

Jemma laughed for the second time that afternoon, genuine and not circumstantial at all. It was a feeling that would never last. "Are you going back to-"

"London, yes. Work, you know. I'm going to Glasgow on Wednesday, visit- mother."

"How is she?"

"Well, all things considered. Things were bad, but you know that, then they got even worse." He paused and looked away, out of the window and to the street. A car passed by, the noise loud, but he didn't seem to notice. For one tiny moment, a fraction of a second, she could see the guilt in his eyes. Amazing how could they had become at acting, at pretending; they buried their emotions and their thoughts as deep as possible so as never to let them shine through, as to keep them safe and shielded from everyone and everything else. "She, erhm, she was actually thinking about moving."

"Moving? Surely not to-"

"Goodness no. Nineteen forty-five, three thousand nine hundred tons of high-explosive bombs and incendiary devices: There's nothing there except for ruins. Bombings causing a firestorm, one thousand six hundred acres destroyed." He paused. "No, nothing to go back to. But she doesn't want to stay in Glasgow either, too many memories."

"Must be difficult."

"It is. You've seen that yourself-"

"Lest we forget."

He nodded. "You know, I don't blame her."

They looked at each other wearily and it became clear to her at once, from the way Fitz had lingered on the word blame and from the suddenly changed inflection in his voice, that he was expecting her to disagree. Why fight now? Why not joke about the possibility of throwing himself into another puddle because it seemed that last time it had made him irresistible and talk about it later? Because this was Fitz and had always been Fitz, kind, thinking about the bigger picture. It wasn't all black and white, there were grey areas. He knew and had always known that things were more complicated than they appeared to be.

This was the Fitz she knew.

This was the Fitz she loved.

"No one could."

For a moment it felt as if an opening had appeared and they could somehow manage to ask all those questions they were trying to avoid. If they could, for a single moment, find some peace leave behind the blame and the unspoken resentments that still needed to be cleared up and apologized for, then all would be different - another twist that would once more change the cards on the table. It was gone as quick as it came, possibilities disappearing leaving them in the present and nowhere else - no longer space for the subjunctive.

"May I ask something? Before I go?"

"Of course."

"All of this." He stopped, gesturing vaguely at them. "It didn't change anything, did it?"

"It changed everything."

Fitz shrugged and put on his coat. "I'll see you, then."

The promise of seeing her soon, one day, maybe  - words of circumstance, perhaps, but nevertheless true - lingered in the air between them. She was aware that she should say something out loud, but her throat was dry now and words appeared slippery and out of her grasp - nonsensical, she was afraid of articulating any sound. It was a fragile ground, she was uneasy because she knew that one wrong inflection could and would change the meaning of a whole sentence, opportunities for misunderstandings bound to arise. They parted ways in silence, a quick peck on the cheek and a firm handshake, an entire afternoon ending with the wooden door closing behind him.

Just like that he was gone, history behind her once again. More questions than answers. She hated him, hated the audacity and boldness of his behaviour. Why did he have to come back and ruin everything? 

She went to the phone, picking the speaker up and holding against her ear - her finger dialling the number. From inside she could see Fitz walking down the street, for a couple of seconds he seemed to have disappear entirely, but there he was again - fluent movements as his figure got smaller and smaller, until he got out of her sight completely.

A crackling over the line, a static sound, loud and unpleasant, followed by a firm, familiar voice.

"London calling," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, and then waited.


	2. Collar the Lot!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1940

 

Fitz was sitting on a bench in the park under the warm summer sun - back resting against the backrest, hands in his lap, head slightly leaned back and legs stretched out. There was something beside him that looked like paper, a newspaper or some of his own work, the edges of which were dangling from the edge, moving at every gust of wind.

So far summer had been clement with its weather. Exceptionally sun and dry, the first two weeks of June had also featured fog - lifting itself and covering the fields and the city alike, disappearing quite early in the mornings, visibility restored at last. Sooty rain had been there too, hitting hard against the windows and leaving behind trails of dirt and dust on every surface; It had enhanced the humidity and therefore the temperatures which, they said, were bound to get even higher - a ghastly prospect, made even more so by memories of summer nineteen thirty-six.

Funny, thought Jemma, how quickly time flew by and how different things could become in a matter of years. Four years felt so much like a lifetime that the past appeared like a foreign country, everything in it hardly belonging to her at all. At the time she had just won a scholarship to attend Newham Collage, a surprise and an achievement that had fuelled her desire to become a Wrangler - making her parents proud and showing everyone else who had humoured her about it that she could, in fact, do and make it. She had spent the summer in eagerness and preparation, the heat getting in the way of her desire to get things done. Her parents and childhood friends to spend time with, not quite ready to say goodbye: that summer had felt endless.

There had been a time before and there would be a time after. It was all coming to an end, no matter how much she treasured the time spent there, for everyone knew that women were not allowed to get a double degree. But it wasn't much the lack of allowance that she felt upset about, but the prospect of having to say goodbye to Fitz: whenever she thought about it seemed impossible that their lives would take two different paths, and their meetings would become nothing but sporadic. Fitz had once told her that three years before, upon their first meeting, they had embarked on a journey that had inevitably changed their lives forever - no going back. She had laughed loudly at the time and he had soon joined her - heads thrown back in amusement - but they knew deep down that the essence of truth, a mutual thought never voiced but always implied, had been voiced in its complete and utter simplicity and in a matter of words.

Oh how she envied those who were allowed to stay. They would go on with their lives and they would have the honour and privilege to see Fitz everyday - in class, at dinner, out and about. Jealousy, a green-eyed monster living in the pit of her stomach, devouring her - how dared life be so unjust? She would appreciate and treasure Fitz's company for sure, but the question was would everyone else?

Strange, now, to think that it had not always been like that. When she was with Fitz everything else seemed to fade away, time stretching out towards infinity, none of the sounds that would usually reach them managed to do so. But there had been tentative days that now appeared like a humorous joke, marked by infinite and gentle delegations as they had tried to talk to each other - tentative sentences with more pauses than words - and by a rivalry that had long ago faded into casual bickering and teasing manners that bore no malice at all.

No, they had not always been friends and the idea of never meeting now appeared dreadful. It would have been easy - different fields of interest, different circles of friends, different collages - and perhaps it was this awareness of infinite possibilities and lack of certainty that made their friendship even more precious. What were the odds? Fitz was travelled, smart, and so utterly different from anyone she knew - interesting, to say the least, sometimes it appeared as if he was the only person worth talking to; She could spend a lifetime next to him without getting tired, bored, or regret any of it. Hypothetical futures were running elsewhere, all that mattered was the here and now: here and now they were together, but what about the following year? And the year after that? There was no sense of security the end of university loomed and Britain was at war again. Change was in the air, inevitably so, clear-headedness had no space in it.

A bell struck two. Loud cawing of birds as they flew away, high in the sky, past the trees and ultimately out of sight. A baby started crying in her pram, quickly consoled by an exhausted mother who picked her up and cradled her - happy gurgles and nonsensical blabbering soon filling the air.

"Fitz!" Jemma all but screamed, rising her hand so as to catch his attention and quickening her pace - longer strides, the pebbles under her feet shifting at every step. "Fancy seeing you here."

And fancy it was considering that he had told her that he couldn't come to London with her because he had to finish writing some papers. Translations too were accumulating on his desk, she'd call him a slob if she saw the mess - he'd said, mimicking her voice while knowing quite well that that wasn't how she spoke at all.

For a moment he looked at her completely lost, then added "I- I couldn't work. Too much of a mess."

"Can I sit down?"

"Yeah, sure."

Fitz took the newspaper away, rolling it up and placing it to his left. For a moment a glimpse of words could be seen, the title printed in black on the yellowish paper, flashing by. She had seen the headlines in London, they were everywhere, at every corner, newsies screamed them as they handed out newspapers: We Shall Fight on Unconquerable. No doubt they were of the same spirit as Churchill's  parliament speech back on the fourth of that same month or the eighteenth. They had made seen as if it had been easy, a complete majority completely moved but everyone who was interested in such thing knew that things had gone differently. Lord Halifax had insisted on having Italy as a mediator, six days later Italy had entered the war, who knew what might have happened had Attlee and his labour party not brought the ultimate push.

"I've got something for you," Jemma told him, trying to sound cheerful.

She put her bag on her legs and opened it. Papers put to the side, pens under her fingertips, a handkerchief fell out and Fitz picked it up for her, holding it as he waited. Then the cold smooth surface of the tin box in her hands as she took it out. Medium size, she had had it for years, collecting dust in her childhood bedroom and had asked her parents to take it to London with them so as to give it to her.  There were several, neatly piled one in top of the other, presents from neighbors and relatives alike - she had taken a fancy for them, treasured them, the paintings on each box a world of their own, a microcosm in which everything was frozen in time.

"There's meringues in it, I'm not gifting you an empty tin box."

"Meringues? Where did you get them?"

"Black market." She paused. "I'm joking! London, you can find pretty much everything if you know where to look."

Carefully painted, the box pictured a winter village scene on it - peaceful and romantic with its faded colours. He studied it, fingers tracing the outline of each figure, the high-relief that through the years had been quite dented in some places. Did he remembered, Jemma wondered, their conversation months ago or had it been forgotten and dismissed in the days after? Always moving, always rushing, a city was much more like her but she wouldn't mind settling down somewhere quiet and peaceful if he was there too.

"You can keep the box. Put your most prized possessions in it."

He cracked a smile and looked at, corners of his mouth slowly rising  until his teeth were exposed.  "Thank you, Simmons. This is-"

His voice broke down, the last part of his sentence hardly audible at all - an indistinct mix of vowels and consonants melting together- and looked away.

"I say, Fitz, is everything alright?"

"What do you mean?"

"You look..." She paused. "You look quite distressed."

"I- Can we go somewhere else? Somewhere... private?"

"Private?"

"Just-"

He was on the edge. The calmness and composure of before were completely gone, leaving space for a tempest of emotions: anger, sorrow, pure and utter rage. Hands shaking badly, tears filling his eyes - he furiously wiped them away and reach for the newspaper, pages crumbling in his fist and words becoming illegible. One step away from being destroyed, she could see it the paper ripped into uneven pieces and falling on the ground like rice or confetti at a wedding - white on green, like snow covering the park; it would be a mess to clean it up.

Fitz was losing it and quickly so, no doubts that it had been going on for days. It wasn't like them to let things go seriously this quickly, their routine was to fool around and joke letting themes and distress ooze through. A different way to ask for help or advice, easier than admitting that there was something bothering them.

"Can you go, Jemma?"

"Go?"

"Away."

"No, I can't. I can't and I won't." She swallowed. The knot in her throat grew tighter. "But you go on. Do what you have to do. Go where you have to-"

Fitz stuffed the tin box into his bag and got up. For a fraction of a second he looked at her, lost and accusingly then, with one sudden and quick movement, he grabbed his newspaper and walked away. A fracture of a second; Fitz getting away from her. She followed him.

Onto the grass, grass blades bending under their shoe soles. Past the flowerbeds with the reds, the violets and the yellows, the buzzing of bees flying around. Back on the pebbles, headed to the street - pavement under their feet, a disorientating feeling of solid ground and the possibility to walk even faster on solid ground without any fear of tripping. Fitz turned left and then right, they passed one of the collages and then the Bridge of Sighs. A dean waved at them, the moment to short for him to get puzzled, Fitz ignored him and Jemma nodded in acknowledgment, the hints of a smile on her face.

Right, left, left.

Straight down the road and then right again.

A car passed by, blocking her walk and letting Fitz gain distance - she run after him so as not to lose him, as fast as she could, her leather bag hitting against her leg at every step. Out of the centre, towards the fields. She was chasing Fitz, Fitz was chasing what? Freedom, a feeling of relief probably, that private place he aspired to find and didn't know where to find - no eyes, no witnesses, no indiscretion and words reaching all the wrong people.

"Stop, Fitz! Just stop!"

He stopped and turned around and she nearly fell over him from the unexpectedness of his movement. She let go of her bag which fell onto the ground with a loud thud, lifting a small cloud of dirt - particles dancing in the air before slowly falling down again. They looked like each other, neither of them daring to speak a word - controlled actions, and sharp breaths, precision in every minutia and jumpiness. It looked  as if they were preparing for a duel.

"So what is it all about?"

Fitz threw her the newspaper, Jemma almost caught it. It fell to the ground and she didn't bother to pick it up. Instead, she kept looking at Fitz waiting. They were getting close now, they had reached the extremes and were now standing in front of the resolution - honesty and relief weren't far away from them, ready to be caught and hold on to.

"They are rebranding him!" He paused, exhaling sharply. "They're bloody rebranding him into some sort of tube-travelling, minority-adoring genius. The greatest Briton that has ever lived. Meanwhile internment camps are built all over the country: German and Italians, Jews and not. It doesn't matter what political side they're on: Collar them all! But you don't read that on newspapers, do you?"

His lower lip trembled and he clenched his fists, knuckles turning white. "Of course not. Rumor has it that the SS Arandora Star in Liverpool is embarking interned German and Italian men, bound to depart for Canada soon. Rumor has it, there's British soldiers on it too. Rumor has it, they're going to revise the Aliens Restriction Act of nineteen twenty-two."

"Fitz-"

"I can't do this anymore!" He screamed at her. spit came out of his moth as he articulated the last syllables, drops of it falling with a neat trajectory towards the ground. Tears rolled down his cheek and she felt tempted to step closer and wipe them away, kneel down and take a handkerchief out of her bag and hand it to him without saying anything, but didn't. Things seemed fragile in that moment, as if any deviation from here and now would lead to a retreat - the truth remaining only half spoken.

There was no firmness and no countenance as he went on. "You should hear the general sentiment. Bloody hell. Everyone and everywhere, those bloody Germans, eh? The other day someone said _remarkable man, your father._ And you should hear the remarks! Vater seems to forget a lot of things nowadays like the fact that he's technically still married to his wife."

Silence. It seemed to last a life time.

" _If you tell anyone about your mother or where you were born and raised, I will snap you in two._ "

The perfect imitation of Alistair Fitz for that was how he talked, that was the sheer terror that he could gather by means of words. Voice completely voided from any emotion - gone was Fitz's way to make fun of the way other people talked; All there was now, was a threat, no doubts in regards to its honesty and sincerity. All there was now, were sharp consonants; each plosive marked with even more emphasis, each syllable neatly articulated, each pause calculated in its effect.

"How long, Jemma? How long until I become an outcast? It's all fun and games when they need you, but what happens when they decide that they don't - not anymore. They're going to drag me through the mud! And then what? I'm Jewish so I'm not German, I'm German so I'm not British. Lucky me, eh?" He said.

It was bigger than her, she couldn't begin to grasp what it meant being caught in a trap like that. Fitz had been stripped of his identity. Once. Twice. She had never really considered it that way. All she wanted to do was apologize and say something; But what was there to say? Words were failing her, never had she been put in such a position before.  And why should she apologize? She had done nothing, said nothing. She had been indifferent and never inquired, never voiced a thought, letting things pass by without paying too much attention.

 "Listen, I'm not- I'm not dismissing my luck, I got away all right. There's my father and I'm named Leopold James Fitz, so- But there has to be a way!"

"You can't go back," she said, stating the obvious.

"I know very well that I can't go back, Simmons. I'm not that stupid!"

"I never said you were!"

"But you were thinking-"

"Don't you dare put this on me, Leopold James Fitz! Don't you dare put words in my mouth!"

A bird cawed above them and pooped. A splash of white on brown dust.   

"They don't tell us anything and news don't get out, but if I'm going down, if they're going to close ranks and throw me to the fucking wolves I want to do something that matters."

"What did you get yourself into, Fitz?"

He wasn't listening any longer, her words didn't reach him. Impassible. She could see his mind work, thinking, faster, thoughts washing over him one after the other, quick, one idea and then the next. He had thought about this, she realized all of a sudden, he had thought about this for a very long time. There they were, together, but Fitz appeared to be alone with his mind. It wasn't a conversation, it was thoughts being voiced out loud, resolutions made to oneself - she was nothing but a passive bystander, alienated, pushed to the side, a reluctant witness to it all.

"Rumour has it that not everyone is looking away. Rumour has it that some are calling it a Scheißland, die abscheulichste aller Missgeburten von Regierungen _."_

Funny how he kept saying that word, rumor, making it sound like it had long stopped being a possibility or hypothesis. It was something established, a universal truth, he savored the words in his mouth as if it was something to hold on to. Something was happening! He was in it or would be, knowing him, he'd find a way: the thought was dreadful for she was sure of one thing. There would be consequences.

Jemma stepped closer,  gently placing her hand on his cheek. His stubble was ticklish under her palm, his skin soft. She brushed his cheek with her thumb, foreheads touching and breaths mixing. Fitz just closed his eyes and there they stood close and in silence, hearts racing, watery eyes. Carrying secrets and objectives. Things were moving, the story developing, too quickly to catch up. Surrounded by silence, a car passed too far away for the noise to properly reach them, the noise of grasshoppers and birds.

"What did you get caught up in, Fitz?" She whispered.

The answer was mere silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Die abscheulichste aller Missgeburten von Regierungen: this most reprehensible of all miscarriages of government - The White Rose's second leaflet (1942). The text of the leaflets can be read online on various sites.  
> \- A detailed account of British internment policy during the Second World War can be found in "Collar the Lot! How Britain Interned & Expelled its Wartime Refugees" by Peter and Leni Gillman (1980). "Tally's Blood" by Ann Marie Di Mambro, a highly popular play for National 5 English, also paints an interesting and wonderful picture of wartime in Scotland as experienced by the Italian community.  
> \- If you're ever in Edinburgh, you should go and see The Manuscript of Monte Cassino by Eduardo Paolozzi (1991). It's a three part bronze statue located outside St Mary's Roman Catholic Cathedral in Picardy Place.  
> \- The SS Arandora Star was torpedoed by a U-47, commanded by Günther Prien, on the morning of 2/07/1940.


	3. Secret and Confidential

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1941

 

A newspaper, _The Daily Telegraph,_ discarded on a wooden chair. Opened on the crosswords section, the rectangular grid was only half filled and some letters cancelled - notes on the sides on the paper making it look like some sort of medieval manuscript filled with glosses that ultimately had nothing to do with the content of the page itself. Forgotten and dismissed it had been abandoned in a rush, the anxiety too much to bother about it, and now lay on the velvet covering of the chair. A page like there had always been and would always be, but on closer look the publicity of a competition going on - an address to send the solution to and a note saying that the finalists should meet at a designed place and time in London. No further information was given.

Two years and a couple of months into war: the Germans were winning it.

Two years and a couple of months into war: Cambridge was no longer safe.

The city had always appeared as safe as the countryside. On some days, were it not for the emptiness of it, it had hardly appeared like wartime at all: life went on, slowly but steadfast, routines had been maintained. There had been bombings before, sporadic ones, but then the Blitz had reached them: Occasional bombs had become more frequent and everything had changed.

The sixteenth of January. A Thursday. A cold and icy night. Two hundred incendiary bombs, most of them dropped in the area of Hyde Park Corner. A fire severely damaging Perse school and a warehouse nearby Regent Street suffering damage too. The work of firemen delayed by hydrants buried in snow or frozen up.

The thirtieth of January. Afternoon. Four o'clock sharp. Attacks on Mill Road Bridge area - two cottages had been hit.

The fifteenth of February. A bomb falling in front of a house in Cherry Hinton Road, blowing off its porch.

The twenty-fourth of February. An attack carried out in three phases: one, incendiaries in the Cherry Hinton Area; two; ten thirty five in the evening, two H.Es making a hit on a house in Grantchester Meadows;  three, a quarter past eleven H.E.s and incendiaries dropped on Hills Road, between Hyde Park Corner and Station Road.

The ninth of May. Hundreds on incendiaries in the area between Hills Road and Trumpington Road. Fifty houses as direct hits.

The twenty-ninth of August. Ten H.E.s on Romsey Town, presumably aimed at the railway but hitting two houses in Great Eastern Street.

The twenty-ninth of September. A wet evening. Eleven o'clock-ish. Incendiaries hitting Huntingdon Road, just beyond the top of Castle Hill.

People had been injured or died. Damaged telephone wires and public service pipes. Jemma had written it all down in her diary, in cursive, neat and meticulous data about history. A list; Always the same scheme, carefully established, she had never deviated from it. She wasn't interested in writing down her own feelings or she might have noticed the slow emersion of a pattern of thoughts worth hours of self-investigation. Neither had she been interested in Fitz's eagerness to help, an eagerness that had only grown after each attack - an atonement, perhaps, of a nonexistent sin as if he himself had been responsible for all of it. No, she was interested in History with a capital h. It was happening and she was part of it. Life changing events. It was facts, facts, facts. Facts carefully written down at the end of each day. Some from newspapers, some from own experience: her diary read like a history book, always up to date. Annāles. Chronicles of the twentieth century!

Cambridge nineteen forty-one was a city of ghosts.

Empty corridor. Muffled voices coming from the other side of the door.

"Tea will arrive shortly."

Jemma looked up, wiping her palms on her tweed trousers before going back to fidget with her finger. Her foot tapped on the floor, with the same rhythm as her heartbeat - soft thuds every time that her sole touched the wooden floor, her whole leg shaking.

"What do you know about the war, Miss Simmons?"

"Everything."

Everything that everyone else knew and perhaps something more than the next person for she paid attention to detail, not letting anything be forgotten. It was presumptions of her, perhaps, to give such an answer but she was ready, if needed, to back it all up with facts, dates, and even more facts. Mapped out in her head, actions and reactions, ready to be spit out one after the other in a list that always bore the same order and structure. She caught her breath and opened her mouth ready to deliver an explanation but was cut off before the first sound could be articulated with preciseness of pronunciation.

"Then you'll be aware that this war is a war we are not winning."

She nodded.

A drawer was opened and sheets of paper were carefully pulled out. A soft rush, the sound of edges against the desk, sheets ordered into a neat pile and then carefully placed down. "Two months ago four people wrote a letter to the Prime Minister telling him about a certain shortage, shall we call it such, of personnel."

"Personnel?"

"Tell me, Miss Simmons, do the names Turning, Welchman, Alexander and Milner-Barry mean anything to you?"

"Some of them, why?"

"What do you know about Bletchley Park?"

"It's in Buckinghamshire. Why?"

"What do you know about Enigma?"

"The unbreakable German machine?"

They had discussed it in class. Never in her life had she felt more like an excited schoolgirl - none of them had. Whispering and murmuring, their voices slowly rising, excitement had hardly been kept at bay. Arguments about the codes being breakable or not, mathematical equations written down illegibly in pencil in corners of notebooks. A post-war invention by Arthur Scheribus, German mechanical engineer, used to encrypt commercial companies' documents so as to keep business' transactions secret from possible enemies: they were plenty of ways, they all had agreed on, to make it even more safe and functional. Minds, after that, had run wild.

"Yes. It turns plain text into gobbledygook and the German use it for all communication."

"Unless one knows the machine's original setting," Jemma replied, words coming out of her mouth in rapid succession. All the anxiety was gone, all that was left was enthusiasm and a  burning desire to know more. It was consuming her, making her wish for her interlocutor to talk faster and get to the point. She was making all sorts of connections, all the variables flashing out in front of her, disappearing as soon as she was fed with another piece of information. "So what has Bletchley got to do with it?"

"It has become the central site of Britain's codebreakers, handled by the Government Code and Cipher School."

"The puzzles on the newspapers, that's you, isn't it?" She paused, looking out of the window.

No answer, but it was obvious. Everything was connected, everything was making sense. How else would they employ people? Universities were empty at this point; some had joined the army, some had become nurses, some had left altogether. But crosswords printed in newspapers was genius, the second best thing after picking up chess players: good at games. Brains, Bletchley was in need of brains, it didn't matter what background or who it was. It was about solving problems and playing games. It was about puzzles and challenges. It was about doing the unthinkable. 

"Enigma is not unbreakable."

"But everyone thinks it is: the Germans, the Russians, the French, the Americans," Jemma said with certainty, otherwise things would be much more complicated than this. Otherwise, she wouldn't be sitting in an unused office at Newham doing a secret job interview prompted by a letter sent to Winston Churchill on the twenty-first of October.

"And I assure you that it is in our interest to keep it that way. As every machine it has its flaws but it has been broken before and will be broken again."

"Did Bletchley break it?"

"Credit where credit's due, it was actually the Polish Cipher Bureau."

Across continents, how much she was bound to learn soon. Theoretical work that had been proven correct once the Polish Cipher Bureau had put their hands on a real Enigma machine. By nineteen thirty-eight the team under Rejewski, Zygalski and Różycki had managed to get access to seventy-five percent of German military intelligence. Fifteenth of December of that same year: the costs were too high for the Polish army to keep financing the project. A deal was made, an alliance, a share of knowledge between France, Poland and Britain - an exchange between discoveries and the promise of putting the very best to work on them.

Then the invasion of Poland starting the first of September nineteen thirty-nine. Jemma pictured a map of Europe, mentally tracking every movement with red arrows from one place to the other: from Poland to Romania and Italy, from Romania and Italy to France. October: new positions and the chance to go on working on Enigma.

Mr. Alan Turing meeting with the Polish mathematicians in person. A set of Zygalski's sheets or Netz, from _Netzverfahren_ \- net method, were handed over: Twenty-six perforated sheets for each of the, initially, six possible sequences for inserting the three rotors into the Enigma machine's scrambler; Each sheet related to the starting position of the left and slowest moving rotor and the matrix represented all the six hundred seventy six possible starting positions of the middle and right rotor - duplicated horizontally and vertically. The cipher key revealed by moving the sheets in the proper manner and sequence.

Then France was invaded. The map, again, in all its details: To Algeria, and from Algeria to Vichy.

January nineteen forty: the decryption of the first wartime Enigma message.

May of that same year: the Germans changing the entire procedure for encrypting message keys save for the Norwegian network.

A month later, the ninth of June: the first real breakthrough.

It was interesting and there were pieces missing, there had to be missing pieces for the second half of the story lacked everything she wished to know: names, details, accurate descriptions. All there was, was her imagination which now appeared limited and scarce. Insufficient, Jemma had never imagined the day would come.

There was a war, battles were being fought in the continent, armies fighting each other.

There was a war, bombs were being dropped on cities and cities coming down at once. Air raids, the noises of airplanes, the sirens giving the alarm - people running down streets to shelters.

There was a war, battles were being fought in the countryside by using mathematics.

It couldn't possibly get more exciting or adventurous.

"And then what?" She asked, hoping for an answer instead of another change of subject.

"And then, Miss Simmons, a letter to our Prime Minister signed by Turning, Welchman, Alexander and Milner-Barry. A letter, Miss Simmons, making it clear that there is a certain-"

"Shortness of staff."

"Quite right so."

"What did the Prime Minister answer?"

"Action this day. Make sure they have all they want on extreme priority and report to me that this had been done." He paused. "I'm offering you a job, Miss Simmons."

A thought crept up at the back of her mind. Inaudible at first but getting louder as she took a sip of her now lukewarm tea - fingers trembling in excitement, she had to hold the plate right beneath it too afraid to spill something on her clothes; now that would have surely made an impression. As they sat there, who was in control? She was. She was! What a thrilling realisation that was and what an ecstasy it provided - washing over her in waves, it made her bolder, ready to do anything. The world was at her feet once more. MI6 and the GC&CS - they needed her. They needed her and everyone like her, not the other way round. They needed her more than she needed them. A powerful position to be in, it pushed her forward. She had never held so much power. She had never had a chance like this before.

This, she was sure, was what making history meant.

This, she was sure, was History in the making.

History was evolving, expanding, unfolding in front of her - she had never felt like this before, not even when the admission letter from Cambridge had arrived. This sense of elation was new, and so was the feeling of finally having a purpose. It didn't matter that she was a women, it didn't matter that she would never be able to study two more years at Cambridge.

There was an odd feeling of being valued, of being recognized. Not the first (rumor had it that Joan Clarke, former Newham alumni, had been recruited by Gordon Welshman himself), but they had thought of her. Her! Jemma Simmons from Sheffield, miles away from home, going on hoping to make everyone see that she could do it - with her dreams and her pride, marching on. The best of the best.

Then fear, panic. Shortage of staff could mean anything, for all she knew she could end up doing secretarial work. Who knew how such interviews went? Jemma clenched her fists, knuckles turning white as her nails pressed against the soft skin of her palm - white half-moons on pink flesh. "Surely not for doing clerical work."

She wouldn't accept if it was so. Nothing wrong with clerical work, never that, but she had qualifications for which she had worked hard for. A double first. Maybe it wouldn't get her a fellowship but there was this. Perhaps, at the end of this war, if an end were ever to come, society would go back being as it always war but in the meanwhile change was happening. Change everything and what a glorious thing that was. This was an opportunity at last to show her value as mathematician, prove something to herself, the world, to everyone who had always humoured her about her choices. Secrecy, perhaps, but she'd knew it and would always knew it somehow it had to be enough.

"Not that, no. You will receive more information once you arrive at Bletchley. Details, history, you'll be made an active participant, Miss Simmons." He paused, cleared his throat. A phone rung, the sound of it muffled by the closed door. Feet on the floor, loud and stomping passing by. Silence. "However, you'll be required to sign a copy of the Official Secrets Act nineteen thirty-nine."

"Of course." Her fountain pen in her hand, fingers close to the point, ink spilling from it, moving on paper with a steady rhythm. Name, middle name and surname - elegant if somehow illegible letters.

"Miss Simmons. I hope it is clear that if you were to tell anyone about this, you could be executed for high treason."

Jemma nodded, shivering at the detachment and coldness of the voice of the man sitting in front of her. Lies, she thought, she had to come up with a string of lies that would cover it all up - a life never lived but completely plausible, something belonging to herself and at the same time to a stranger. A radio factory, perhaps, something that would not require further knowledge that could be tested. A work among other women, her parents would be reassured knowing that it was completely decorous. Careful thinking, she would get the knack of it.

"And if I'm allowed a moment of boldness, sir," she said, getting up. "If you need a translator, Leopold James Fitz will do one hell of a job."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter sent by A. M. Turing, W. G. Welchman, C. H. O’D Alexander and P. S. Milner-Barry to Winston Churchill is dated 21/10/1941 and was delivered to 10 Downing Street by Milner-Barry in person. Quite an unorthodox behaviour, really, as remarked by Commander Denniston himself a couple of days later (however, Denniston was "much too nice a man to bear malice"). 
> 
> Milner-Barry's account on that day can be read in ‘‘Action This Day’’: The Letter from Bletchley Park Cryptanalysts to the Prime Minister, 21 October 1941’, Intelligence and National Security, 1 (1986), 272–3. You can also find it online.
> 
> The letter to Winston Churchill should be in the Public Record Office in Kew, Richmond, Surrey and can be read online.
> 
> Some liberties have been taken.


	4. Some Do Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1941

 

December. The ground was covered in snow, a couple of inches had faintly fallen during the night. Falling faintly they had painted everything white - soft heaps on lampposts and walls, naked trees and grass. On the streets half melted, prints of car tires clearly visible - irregular surfaces on the watery mush of half melted snow and mud. Frozen puddles.

The air was yellow and dawn was approaching, the sky getting clearer - strikes of pink at the horizon, behind the dark outlines of ancient buildings, the moon still visible but slowly setting. No clouds to be seen - the day would be beautiful with that peculiar play of colours and lights, sunshine reflecting on every surface making everything appear bright and luminous.

Cambridge appeared to be asleep in the early hours of the morning, the only moving thing the pointers of the tower clock. A cat crossing the street and stopping, licking its paw, looking around before proceeding her walk - a flash of orange and brown, gone as quickly as it came.

Footprints on pavements, from the collages to the park. It was December.

"I was thinking." Fitz started and paused, fixing his scarf so as not to have it cover his mouth, "I was thinking that now that you're gone, I can finally complete the _Daily telegraph_ 's crosswords in peace. No ripped out pages, no filled in spots. Ah, freedom at last."

"I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

"That you want me gone just so you can show off your lateral thinking skills."

She looked at him, nudging him with her elbow. The sudden movement threw her off balance, the suitcase in her right hand threatening to bring her down - her grasp on the handle not as tight and slippery with the woollen gloves preventing a tighter grip. If it fell, Jemma thought, it would have been welcome; It would buy them some more time. Or maybe, perhaps, probably, it was better not to risk it when the suitcase itself was only precariously closed - too filled with stuff, having it open in the middle of a snowy street not the best of solutions.

"Showing off my lateral thinking skills is what I always wanted to do in life. Obviously."

"Obviously."

Companionable silence though suiting them just fine gave their minds too much time to wander. How many things to say now that the parting of ways was coming closer! How many thoughts that and never been voiced that now appeared important and relevant. From the very first moment. Jemma wanted to tell him, like a carpenter's vice. But now there they were walking in the cold, the sun not yet risen, the city asleep - woollen mittens and scarves, bundled up in their coats, cold air reddening their cheeks and a growing sense of nostalgia for something that had yet to end. What good would it do?

"I say, you shouldn't have come." She blew her nose and stuffed the used handkerchief back into her pocket.

Perhaps all of this - Fitz walking her to the station - was making it worse.  He should have stayed in his room - no reason to leave his lodgings, not in this weather, not for her. Bittersweet, the thirty minutes walk now appeared immensely shorter: soon it would be over. They had already passed the botanic garden. How many memories! Flooding her mind! Did he remember, she wanted to ask, what he had told her one autumn day many years before? A walk in the mist, dead and dry leaves cracking under their feet - a see of yellow, orange and red. The early days of their friendship, now everything was different. Changed, cast into another mould - the essence still there, everything else shifted, explored and re-examined.

Fifteen minutes to the end. She didn't want, nor was she ready, to let it all go.

Fitz shouldn't have come with her.

"I don't mind, really."

But she did mind, was that irrelevant to him? She hated his audacity and boldness, his promptness in offering his company for the last time. There he was affectionate and kind as always, making things difficult.

"Don't you have anything better to do? Anything more interesting and relevant?"

"Lots of things really. Funnily enough the pile of translations on my desk never seems to diminish - they all fell down the other day, a mess of sheets. One even ended under the bed, spent half an hour looking for it."

"You're a slob, Fitz." She said, laughing.

"You're a slob, Fitz." He mocked her, raising his voice. High pitched and slow, each syllable followed by a small pause. "That's not even how I sound."

"That's not even how I sound." Her voice overlapped with Fitz's. They said it in unison, perfect synchronisation of every articulated sound.

"I'm starting to think that you don't want me here."

Yes. No. Yes. No. Of course she wanted him there, but at the same time part of her wanted him gone. He was not in the right position to understand her. He wasn't the one saying farewell to start a life of lies - she would have to lie to him and if it ever came out what would he think of her? No doubt that he would hate her with quite some passion. And then it would all be lost anyway. This - the two of them walking together side by side, stiff upper lips trying not to talk or think about their respective feelings,  hands brushing against each other at every step - was all hard to let go. This - the desire for more, more, more! The banter and the memories - was a reminder of what could easily be lost.

"You know what I want, Fitz, I cannot have."

"And what is it I know?"

Jemma looked away, the knot at the back of her throat getting tighter. Light shining through the curtains of a nearby house - dim and pale. Movement. The city waking up. It was getting late, what if she missed her train?

They turned left, leaving the botanic garden behind them.

"Listen, Jemma, I- For the past three years we've been together for every moment of every day. The whole damn time, really. I had to come, couldn't live with myself if I hadn't."

"Then we should meet. One day, soon." She forced a smile.

"Oh, most definitely. I gave you one of my books, I'm afraid it's filled with annotations but you won't mind. Surely. I do want it back though."

"I'd tell you to come visit me, see my new lodgings and everything else, but you'd have to take the bus to get there and you know how those things are: their timetables are like a work of fiction."

Fitz laughed. "London then."

"London will do."

"Will you still enjoy my company, I wonder."

"Why?" She asked. "You think that me leaving Cambridge means that I will become a woman of the world, full of exciting experiences? You're wrong."

"You won't think me terribly dull?"

"No, never that."

"Oh, good."

"In fact." Jemma paused, looking at him. Their eyes met and for a moment just that - the two of them looking at each other, watery eyes. "I can hardly imagine me ever telling you to go."

"I say, that's even better. Jemma, if I may be so bold as to say that you deserve- you deserve more than clerical work in a radio factory."

"You know how these things are, Fitz. Let's consider it a starting point, shall we?"

"Don't settle. Don't settle for this."

There was no starting point nor a chance to settle. One day the war would end and she'd be back at square one, it was an inevitable end looming at the horizon. She longed to tell Fitz that all of this was a farce, a parade, that would eventually come to an end. Bletchley, MI6 and GC&CS, needed her like they needed young debutants who would keep their mouths shut - thrilling, but at the same time she knew as much as everyone else involved that it was only because men were at the front. For her options, the present looked brighter than the future did. An odd perspective that unsettled her.

The train station just across the street. It was official and irrevocably true: gone was Cambridge, gone was Newham, gone was her room. The future lay in front of her and there she was, all her belongings stuffed in her suitcase - books, notes, clothes, everything important save for the most important one that she had to leave behind. The last link to the past. It was hard to say goodbye.

"I did enjoy the last three years, all the time spent together," she said, placing her mittens on the suitcase on the platform, at hands reach. "I wish I could stay forever and all the time after that."

There would be no tears.

"I like you, Fitz. I like talking to you."

"I like talking to you too."

"You'll be granted the honour to be a fellow, of that I'm sure. And I will be able to say that I know the brilliant Leopold James Fitz."

He smiled, sadly.

She stretched out her hand and upped his cheek, his stubble ticklish. He leaned into her touch, slowly, head turning to the side ever so slightly - her thumb gently caressing his skin. His hand placed gently on hers - certainly not the most comfortable of positions, but this moment - out of time and place, not to be interrupted. So this was it, the end: perhaps it really was better to have it all end like that. The train would come soon, on time, taking her away - years left in the past, Fitz's silhouette getting smaller and smaller until it would disappear completely. Would he wave at her until his arm hurt, dropping it, a sense of emptiness and nostalgia filling him so utterly and completely just as it was happening to her?

Time was not to be wasted! Until the end, then. The very end.

They would see each other again. They would meet in London. They would write letters. There would be a future, she reassured herself, maybe not the one she had imagined for them, but a future still. They alone were responsible for things that would come - shaping lives however they wanted. They would be ready.

Fitz's eyes appeared bluer, crystal clear, and his eyelashes blonder; she had never noticed it before. Strange, such a close distance: there was something ludicrous about the whole situation, something Jemma was now unable to grasp.

Something had to be said. He whispered her name. It sounded new, foreign, different down to the last vowel.

The impulse to kiss him! All but irresistible. patiently and yielding, their heads getting closer, breaths mixing and clouds of condensation between them. His breath was fresh, hints of peppermint - he had sucked at a candy earlier, right after meeting her in front of Newham. Tentativeness, the distance between them getting smaller and larger again. Indecisiveness. Trembling anticipation. Shortness of breath. How would it feel? His hand looked for hers, fingers lacing - skin resting on skin, their grip getting tighter.

_Tristibus et lacrimis oscula mixta dabis._

By God, Jemma thought, tell him. Tell him!

A train whistled, loud. A piercing sound - screeching wheels against the train tracks. Smoke. They jumped apart, the moment lost and gone.

Another thought, a second one more insisting than the first: and then what? What good would it do to leave with more questions than answers?

She stepped away and cleared her throat - mathematical precision in all her calculated movements. It would be like pulling the strings of the shower bath. No. No kisses and no tears - their friendship, that familiar politeness both re-established. Lines were being drawn, a clear set of limits. For the best.

"It couldn't have lasted forever," she said and waited.

"Damn punctuality!" Fitz laughed and let go of her hand, fingers curling at the touch seeking the latter for a little while longer.

"It's been... an honour. These past three years. I wish you knew. I wish knew-" Her words got lost in the noise and the crowd, a whistling sound started and cut through the air. Too much going on, it was no longer just her and Fitz. Everything was awake. Everything was alive.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, of consequence. Just- don't get into trouble while I'm not around. I'll see you soon."

They looked at each other and smiled; A sad smile, mouths hardly moving. No inflection of any verb at this moment of parting, just a small nod as Jemma picked up her suitcase.

In the end, she thought, they were the sorts that do not.

 


	5. Action This Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1942

 

Months after the creation of ULTRA: a new year that marked the beginning of a new and different life, away from all that was known. Strange and unsettling, it was bound, no doubt, to soon become as familiar as her life before.

Months after the creation of ULTRA: a different year, a year so far filled with oblivion - lying in the dark knowing nothing, mind wondering about things that had once been given for granted.

Months after the creation of ULTRA: the third year of war, the end still far away.

The creation of ULTRA, a word used to refer to signal intelligence obtained by cracking the enemy's high level encrypted radio and teleprinter communications, meant that none of them was playing God. Bloody hell, Jemma often found herself tempted to shout at the new recruits who looked at her with a mix of admiration and intimidation, it wasn't up to them to decide who lived and who died. All they did during their eight hours shifts was to collect the messages and deliver them; The destiny of the convoys, in the Atlantic or not, was not and had never been in their hands, not even during those uncertain months when Hut Eight had tried to find an access to Enigma and it's unbreakable code.

As far as Jemma was concerned ULTRA was a microcosm. An all men microcosm. A restricted circle, an elite of trusted people who probably worked for the secret service - man in suits with fancy ties and shiny shoes, they probably owned black rigid document cases and lurked in corners, looking out for leaked information. It had nothing to do with Bletchley, or so she liked to imagine, and with any of the huts - nothing to explain there. It was a secret as many things were, but there was a basic understanding that before ULTRA there were people who delivered the translated messages; before that the messages elaborated by the English Type-Xs. And before that? Before that the Bombes, electro-mechanical devices that replicated the action of several Enigma machines wired together.

Designed by Alan Turing with the help of mathematician Gordon Welchman and engineer Harold Keen, the Bombes had been developed based on Marian Rejewski's design of his bomba kryptologiczna. Their work was to discover some of the daily settings of the Enigma machines used by various German military networks. The Bombes and their noise, that constant whirring and buzzing that could be heard from outside of the hut two - softer and less precise, mixed with the noise of people talking - now those were something that belonged to Bletchley along with the Type-Xs, the translators and the Wrens. But ULTRA? ULTRA was another reality altogether, so distant from their own that after the first week Jemma had stopped wondering whether they were based there at the park or in London. Positutely indifferent, it didn't matter and never would, nothing but a matter of imagination for it wasn't up to her or any of her colleagues to decide what to do with the information taken from all the deciphered codes.

Jemma took the keys out of her trousers' pocket and stepped closer to the glass cabinet in front of her. Her reflection stared back at her: changed and yet the same, it was hard to recognize herself sometimes - a stranger in her own life, a lonelier version of herself, she no longer felt like the smartest person in the room either. What was Fitz doing in that precise moment, she wondered as she opened the cabinet, and was she in his thoughts as much as he was in hers? He, or the thought of him at least, was like a ghost, always at the back of her mind - the next letter, the next meeting, a phone call. Jemma often looked for his name among the new recruits ones, black on white paper, after all he was a good translator with quite important connections

The grip around Enigma's handle firm, cold on her skin, the Wetterkurzschlüssel with their red covers placed on the shelf beneath. A moment of unbalance as Jemma pulled out the twenty six pound box, courtesy of the Polish Cipher Bureau, then the glass door closing and the keys being retrieved. Her reflection again - clearer than before. What was Fitz up to, she wondered, and did he dream about them as often as she did? In her dreams Jemma kissed him, chastely and tentatively at first, a great deal of hesitance painting her movements, and then with more honesty and passion. In her dreams their relationship wasn't reduced to a missed moment at a train station and confined to possibilities, it was something real, tangible, there to be explored. No interrupted moments and no second thoughts, in her dreams Bletchley  and the lies that came with it didn't matter: they were friends and more than that. They were certain of their feelings and acted accordingly.

Behind her chatter, the new recruits talking with each other, fervent agitation revealed by nervous feet tapping against the stone pavement and fingers lightly hitting the black table - a rhythmical and regular movement. Their reflection mirrored in the glass too, undistinguished features, a painting of strangers. She had been one of them once.

Jemma coughed and blinked, the artificial lights hanging from the ceiling brighter than one would expect. "It weights twenty six pounds, battery included, and goes everywhere, The Enigma machine, the Germans have thousands of them." She started, opening the box with care - the wooden cover pushed back revealing the inside. "You must know that-"

"It turns plain text into gobbledygook," said a voice at the back, loud and projected, eager to please by getting things right.

It felt familiar. It felt like a classroom.

"Yes, and that gobbledygook gets transmitted in Morse. At the receiving end another Enigma and an operator who turns the message back into plain text."

Unbreakable, but Bletchley had broken it, the first major breakthrough having occurred in June - long before her time there. Unbreakable, the words still sounded unreal and caused a thrilling sensation, a sense of excitement stirred within, agitation growing as the recruits murmured and whispered to the person standing next to them. Noise filling the air, a unison of voices getting louder and louder. Jemma felt like a school teacher with a class eager to learn but lacking in manners or rather failing to realize that twenty whispers added up and created unpleasant noise that came both as a distraction and interruption of what was being said. And just like in a classroom participation was welcome, it made things less boring, but there was a very thin line between welcomed participation and useless addition.

Now that was a job she had never considered doing and the idea of which she had always loathed, but there was a great deal of enjoyment that came with it: among such talented and smart people, it was a nice distraction to be the one knowing more than the others. Once more she was the smartest person in the room, the more informed one: knowledge was not taken for granted and her pride was restored if only momentarily. Admiration oozed off them, enhanced by the secrecy of Jemma's career - they were peers most of the time, debutantes or fellow graduates, chess players or people good at solving crosswords, but she had one advantage that put her on a different lever: to be standing in front of them meant that Jemma herself had been there longer; a veteran at this game of codes and secrecy.

"Plug board, light board, rotors." Jemma started, pointing at each mentioned part while she talked. She showed them everything - the letters, the plugs and how they were connected, the way rotors were chosen and ser in position, the battery and the button to switch the machine on - and talked slowly, sounds carefully articulated, paying attention so as not to give any information for granted. Were she to forget anything, then the string of information would lack sense and meaning - each passage relevant to the one that proceeded and the one that followed it. "The machine creates a multi-poli-alphabetical cipher that has-"

"That's one million..."

"Million million..."

Voices overlapping, then a girl at the front almost shouting "Over one hundred and fifty million million million  possible settings, considering the ten plugboard cables and the five rotors."

"Very good," replied Jemma. Incorrect but still, this was the attitude and promptness she liked to see; and who was she to diminish the enthusiasm? Rivalry didn't do anyone any good, this was a chance of freedom and a chance to be taken seriously perhaps for the first time ever - she wasn't in the position to take it away. "158,962,555,217,826,360,000 if we want to be precise. Depending on the rotors, their position and the way plugs on the board are connected with each other."

Laughter, loud and clear it echoed inside the room and lessened the tension.

"And a letter never encrypts as itself?" Someone asked.

"Exactly. One could spend a lifetime pressing the letter F without ever getting the light corresponding to that same letter to turn on; You could do that with any other letter - J, L and so on - same result." She paused and looked at them. So far so good, no one looked lost just - eager for more. "It's supposed to be Enigma's biggest advantage, the one thing that makes the machine unbreakable, but it's actually the biggest flaw of the system."

"Because it reduces the permutations by far?"

"Yes, that. But there's also more: The Germans aren't really that careful when writing their messages. Hail Hitler is always there, of course, but some don't change their codes or always use the same password."

"But then why worry when they don't know that we have our own Enigma and have broken the code for-"

"Almost a year." Added Jemma.

Of course there was more, there always was. Meteorological bullets from the Atlantic were encrypted too  and followed a standard form that had wind-speed, atmosphere pressure, and temperature exactly in that order; Weather was always the same no matter whether it was the Germans or the English to report about it.

Laughter.

Because of the standard form and the known information, Bletchley could guess what the message was saying and consequently work its way through all the possible Enigma settings until nothing but final hypothesis remained, hypothesis that could be checked with the help of the Bombes. Before that all that remained were letters scribbled on paper, connected with straight lines - drawn quickly, smudged ink at their extremities.

"Cribs, we call them cribs. You'll get quite familiar with them, I am sure." She paused. "It's less complicated and more mechanical than it sounds. Think of it like this: you're here because you like or are good at solving problems, Enigma is the most difficult problem in the world."

And so they were dismissed. She watched them leave, stumbling through the door, pushing each other out of the restricted space and into the winter day - sun shining brightly in the clear blue sky. A wave of fresh, cold air coming in, diminishing the smell of mold and making her shiver because of the unexpected drop of temperature. Then, carefully, she put the Enigma back at her place and locked the cabinet - checking twice before exiting the building and making her way towards the bicycle area.

There here bicycle was parked with some others, a mass of old and ruined metal. She smiled as she spotted Turing's - an old and defective things with an interesting problem: As you pedalled it, every so often, the chain would pop off and disengage from the chain ring falling from the gear after a regular number of rotations. When this happened, Turning, who had trained himself to count the revolutions of the gears as he was riding, had to hop off the bicycle whenever he got close to the time for the chain to derail, had to get off the bicycle and adjust the chain. She had seen him a couple of times - hand half raised in greeting as she passed by.

Life like the one she had at Bletchley would never last: it was a temporary reality which she enjoyed immensely. So many women working there! It made her smile that many debutants had been among the first to be employed, even though it was for nothing but clerical work: a chance for everyone! They were living in the moment, each day bringing something new and teaching them something new about themselves and everyone else. For how many girls of her age, Jemma thought as she unlocked her bike, was this experience an occasion of self discovery and a first chance to live a life away from conventions? this was all new, even for her who had attended Cambridge and had been away from home for years, and not even the similarities of one day and the next could take that away.

The experience of a lifetime, something out of a Bildungsroman, they were characters in the making. Eight hours shift that sometimes doubled, she loved to work from o' eight hundred to o' four hundred - another way to be left alone in her lodgings, her elusive housemates nowhere to be seen, with nothing but her thoughts as company. Those were the moments she missed Fitz the most.

Indistinct and repetitive, those were her days - easy under such circumstances to lose track of time. There was work and there was free time, during the latter she read books about mathematics, took a walk in exploration of the nearby surrounding, and wrote to Fitz. Their letters were filled with careful politeness, both of them trying to avoid all those subjects they so desperately wanted to discuss. Why hadn't he kissed her? She had once written before throwing the sheet of paper into the bin. Why hadn't he? Not at the station, that was entirely on her and their lack of timing, but before under a starry moonlit night. A late walk in early summer - sweat covering their foreheads. One time, daringly, she had thought about telling him that she had dreamt about him - naked bodies coming together - but the embarrassment had been too much. Instead, she had filled her letters with formalities - dears and yours sincerely, for she was that kind of precise idiot.

The checkpoint. Jemma fumbled with her bag and documents as she took them out - would she ever learn to just keep them ready instead of having to get down the bike, take her luggage off, open it and then revert all her actions? It had been months, she missed the routine of moving as freely as she wanted without having to pay attention to minor details that may save everyone's time. Out of the pocket and into her hand, the picture was an old one - her hair had been longer then, tied back with bobby pins, a faint smile on her lips. Already open and handed over, a moment of inspection - the edges of her identification papers were quite consumed and ripped, irregular yellow outlines. A nod coming from one of the guards and she went on, the bag now hanging from the handle.

The dirt road was completely frozen and slippery. Ice sheets covered the holes left by tires and footprints, former puddles with smooth surfaces that reflected the afternoon's sunlight. She pedalled carefully, holding the handle firmly and trying not to unbalance the precarious equilibrium she was in. Then pebbles, irregular and uneven, the bicycle's wheels sunk into them - one, two, three, onto a pebble and into the grass: the whole world seemed to shake and she lost control: jumping off just in time so as not to fall along with the bicycle.

A loud thud, the wheels were still spinning furiously, quietly slowing down. "Damn pebbles!" She screamed and kicked a stone into the field - an action that didn't make her feel better at all. She had known from the very first day that this was bound to happen. It angered her even more.

Then a voice. Loud and clear, familiar down to the accent and the inflection of words - calculated as if behind it lay an extra effort. It was a voice that always seemed to hide secret, a voice that now made it obvious that in their polite exchanges they had gotten close to reality, but in an artificial way - words on paper did not measure up and were nothing compared to the moment - all sharp edges, real, real, real. "I say, Jemma, is that really you?"

She wanted to run towards him, covering the distance in a matter of seconds, and ask how he ended up at Bletchley: was it the crosswords in _The Daily Telegraph_? Her suggestion? His father's? A matter of coincidence? But all she could think of - as her heart beat faster and echoed in her ears, hardly able to hold back the excitement - was that Fitz was standing there in front of her. At last.

Action this day indeed - the one person that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that this fic is 100% historically accurate, but TIG is... a very bad movie. One of the scenes I hate with every fiber of my being is the "playing God" one. Fun fact: Peter Hilton arrived at Bletchley on 12/01/1942, he didn't have a brother on one of the convoys, and none of them was playing God because ULTRA was not their responsibility (decisions about when/whether to use ULTRA data were made at much higher administrative levels). This chapter exists for the sole purpose of saying that no, people working in hut 8 were not playing God.
> 
> On ULTRA:  
> \- "Let no one be fooled, by the spate of television films and propaganda which has made the war seem like some great triumphant epic. It was, in fact, a very narrow shave, and the reader may like to ponder, whilst reading this book, whether or not we might have won had we not had Ultra." (F. W. Winterbotham, The Ultra Secret, chapter 3);  
> \- Ian McEwan, The Imitation Game;


	6. The Enigma of the Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1942

 

"Of course it is, who else would it be?"

She tried to let out a laugh but it died in her throat, coming out as a faint caught. It seemed called for, the only way to diminish both the significance and the awkwardness of the moment, certainly better than just stand there and do nothing. She had been caught in her lie, that oddly specific story of a radio factory, miles outside London, too out of reach for a decent enough connection with public transport, was now crumbling down. There was a train station not far away from the Park and even less so from her lodgings and there was no radio factory - it was impossible now to pretend Fitz didn't know. Not all of it, some of it but it was already enough to leave her exposed and vulnerable as she stood in front of him. Now, as they looked at each other, standing on a frozen and desert road under the faint winter sun, it felt as if they were walking on thin ice. The situation between them was balanced in such a way that every outcome was equally possible: two extremes, a forking path: happiness and resolutions versus an impending argument, fear and utter terror of losing something that had yet to start.

Words seemed unreliable, slippery, out of their reach and holding the essence to all sorts of mistakes. They could be misunderstood too easily, all it took was a misplaced stress transforming sentences into something they were not. And then that well known game for which they put sentences in the other's mouth - a thrill on the same line as self-destruction: their paranoia expressed the wrong way, hurting the other so as to make themselves distant, avoiding pain that was bound to come. Therefore silence! But for the sound of the wind, far away, the noise being but a soft echo, a car horn hooted. They didn't care.

Fitz nervously fidgeting with his hands, his gaze moving back and forth from her to the field, a great deal of bewilderment in his eyes - mouth half opened in disbelief.  Jemma torn between moving and staying still and motionless, resulting in an awkward on spot swinging. They studied each other wearily with a hint of the tenderness and affection they knew well and were used to - soft and shy looks, eyes drifting away so as not to get caught - while being able to take the first step so as to eliminate all possibilities but the wanted one appeared like a heroic quest - something out of a book, a bed time story, the climax of a chronicle dating back centuries transmitted orally from one generation to the other.

She could see herself acting on impulse. She could imagine herself acting on impulse and closing the distance between them so as to be able to hug him tight - bodies pressed together, arms around his shoulders and head buried in the crook of his neck: there, she'd whisper long due secrets. I like you and I've missed you, how hard could it be? The first part may have been redundant, but the second as important as ever. Easy: it was a matter of strides, swift and gentle movements and articulation of syllables she didn't even have to say too loud. But her second thought: it was up to Fitz to make the first move and say something; after all, he was the one she had lied to for weeks. Once he would make his move, the game could go on.

"I don't know." He shrugged, his shoulders raising ever so slightly. "It's just- fancy radio factory you've got here."

Jemma remained silent and looked at the ground, clenching her fists in the meantime. Her palms were sweating, fingernails digging into her skin. Was he humouring her, the playful tone sincere, or was it a new way to voice accusations - grudges there but voiced subtly. A painful matter, everything uncertain but there was another realisation getting clearer ever so quickly: she would not have this, she would not stand there and let him accuse her of dishonesty when he himself would have needed to tell her something in regards to his departure from Cambridge. Like that they were equals again, each eventual parry could be turned against the other with such quickness and honesty that if an argument had indeed to take place than neither would be coming out victorious. Nothing else seemed to matter.

She stepped forward tentatively and hesitantly, stillness after each step. He was still in time to stop her, a half raised hand as a way to plead for a retreat; but then he laughed - a nasal laugh anticipated by a flow of egressive air, an odd noise that made her laugh. Not quite unexpected, but coming as a relief.

"I told... my mother that for the time being I'd stay at Cambridge."

She had never heard him calling his mother _my mother_ , the words sounded foreign coming from him, different and out of place. The same way she had never heard Fitz calling Alistair _my father_. Part of his upbringing, she thought, old habits difficult to dismiss: with Jemma he had always been free to speak as he pleased, no fear of judgement. For a moment she thought about asking, mother? What is that all about? the words already on the tip of her tongue, ready to come out effortlessly and neatly articulated, one sound after the other.

"Fancy university  you've got here." She humoured him instead.

"And she asked about you. And I said- I said that you had yet to leave thought I'm not entirely sure she believed me." He paused. "And now we're both here, isn't that jolly?"

"Marvellous, I'd say."

"Jolly well nice indeed. So, how do you do?"

"I can't complain, really. And you?"

"I'm happy to see you. You look different-"

"Oh."

"Not bad... Just- different. You look good. You look well."

"Thank you. You too look well," Jemma said.

They were out of their depths. Their letters, those brief exchanges, had never measured up to reality but now they were trapped in conviviality and formalities that threaten to ruin them in a similar way. Everything was toned down. Everything was reduced. They were two precise imbeciles who couldn't or wouldn't step out of a situation they had both created so as to reach the point more precisely and with much more speed. They had been separated for too long, a situation without any precedents, and now every thought was running in a different direction. Go back to how things had ended or lose themselves in small talk? On one hand, an early morning, faces close, the irresistible impulse to kiss him! What about all that? Thoughts were running ahead of them, one moment in time - distant, now - occupying their thoughts. Why hadn't they kissed and what stood between them now preventing them to talk freely and with complete honesty? History, the fact that they both were precise imbeciles who couldn't or wouldn't abandon small talk.  On the other, old friends catching up, meeting for the first time in a matter of months. What were a few moments at a train station compared to the years of their friendship?

"I'm terribly sorry." Jemma continued." About the lies. But I was indeed quite honest about the enhanced clerical work, though that means more than I can say."

"I can't really hold that against you, can I?"

"I suppose not. How's Cambridge?"

"A city of ghosts. There's nearly no one left at the collages which made it look like the perfect time to leave. I did work for my father for some time and got a job offer soon after; whether to leave or stay wasn't really a difficult decision to make.

She laughed and smiled at him. "Have you been to Glasgow?"

He looked upset, his expression changing at once. Regret and her words hung in the air between them, there was no way to take it all back - saying that the sentence should have never been spoken to begin with seemed like an even bigger mistake. Did he think her naive? Something had happened, Fitz seemed to silently give it away, and she did not know - it was clear and not overlookable. He had accused her once of turning a blind eye on what mattered, just like everyone else, she was not there to hear it saying him all over again. Maybe she was naive and uninformed, but her excitement for history was starting to wear off: that was Bletchley's fault. No more historical information carefully listed on blank pages: her diary no longer read like chronicles of the twentieth century or annāles, but rather as a serious of self-investigative matters.

There was a rumour, she wanted to tell him, passed on between colleague, that said employees had been pushed to work harder and more by being told that three people died because of Enigma while every word was spoken. All the times the blackboards were cleaned, the swift movements to remove the chalk, and all the times sheets of paper had been crumpled and thrown into the bin. _There go other three people, let's hope they didn't have family. And there goes another one._ People had had nervous breakdowns and had been sent back to Cambridge to fix their nerves, in hindsight it explained why people whom had disappeared for months turned up again without so much as a word.

It was easy to judge and point fingers, Jemma was ready to scream, when one had not tried working at Bletchley for more than a day. It was easy to judge when once didn't yet share a sense of responsibility. There was Bletchley and there were the convoys, there was a war thought with mathematics and not with weapons from the English countryside, eight hours at a time: this was her life now. This and code breaking, better, quicker, and more efficiently, as if atoning a sin for crimes they were not committing. It was her life, a new one that no doubt she would one day despise and be fond of in equal measure, and she lacked the emotional strength to care about too many things at once lest it consumed her, If ULTRA was a microcosm, so was Bletchley  - life there so peculiar that at times it didn't even feel real; life there meant walking in precarious equilibrium, the smallest of things threatening to destroy everything.

Fitz knew nothing and acted as if he knew everything. There he was making faces. It was unfair. And then another thought, a sudden reminder that he was caught between sides. A harsh reality, multiple and fractured - they had never looked at the world in the same way and never would, too many differences for it to be so.

"No, not yet. I'm not quite sure whether I'm ready to go. Mother said I'd be welcome, my childhood bedroom waiting for me, but I can't. I can't." He paused. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"About the forced relocations."

She shook her head.

"Collar them all! Remember? There's a protected coastal strip in cities like Edinburgh and Glasgow. People have gone mad, too scared of treason and double play that they're afraid women are going to send messages to the enemy if they live next to the coast. Seventy-two hours to move at least twenty miles inland."

"Did you know anyone?"

"Hard not to, there were plenty of Italians living in Glasgow. I must have been ten, a scared little thing afraid to speak English, my father already out of the picture, mother used to take me to eat ice-cream. Tally's Blood they call it now, the raspberry sauce put on top."

His descriptions were ever so vivid, painting a picture. There was Fitz, so much younger than now, a scared little thing - lost and unsettled, having just arrived to England, his life in Dresden bound to become nothing but a memory. If his father had left already than he must have been a little more than ten - the year after the one characterized by an incredible fear of communists taking the power, the Weimar republic already fragile. His hair longer, golden curls, and blue eyes - a mischievous smile on his face, a smile that sometimes he still showed; a teasing one, a careless one, a content and happy one, corners of his mouth slightly raised, his teeth almost revealed. That Fitz, that phantom version of himself with his mother Hannelore - she's seen a picture of her, young, curls just like Fitz's - roaming through the streets of Glasgow with their new life, a different life, safe though at that point they couldn't know how much. Eating ice-cream - a trivial action so normal and timeless in its essence that now it seemed out of place - running down what had once been Westergait, on a warm summer day. The city streets were familiar to Jemma, a short vacation with her parents the year before getting her admission letter from Cambridge.

"Riots through the streets and broken windows. There's a family, I went to school with one of the daughters, she was part of our band of misfits if we want to call it like that. Their uncle - mother said had volunteered in 1940, deported to Canada, died in the torpedoing of the SS Arandora Star."

"What about your mother?"

"Not going anywhere, at least for now. One could spend yours wondering whether it's because of my father or not, hard to imagine but one has to admit that he is someone and a someone that counts - no matter whether he tries to deny our existence and past. He's useful, I'll give him that and nothing more. But this country, Jemma, is a country going to hell."

She hated herself as she said "You mustn't be proud to hate your country."

She sounded like the next person in the streets and what made her better than them or different? Scary thought to realize that a them could also be an us. But he couldn't speak like that here. He couldn't rant here the same way he couldn't brag about who he was. Not here. Shut up! She wanted to tell him, and it was sad to admit it, that his father was right.

"Oh, don't believe that" I love every field and hedgerow. Remember what I once told you?"

"What? I can't remember."

"That I'm not one of those people who'll let a country go to hell and never stir himself except to say I told you so."

"I remember!" She said. "I told you that you always seemed to choose to fight on. Even when it was nothing but a matter of principle."

"I said, come on you know you like me despite of it."

"Because of it. I said I liked you because of it. There you were always trying to be a better person, always trying to be right and kind, you ought to belong to a museum."

He laughed and she joined him. And then they looked at each other, carefully, as if for the first time - they're eyes opened. A new light, a different way, familiar and strangers at the same time. War was changing them and yet there they stood - unaltered and hiding secrets. Forgiveness had been granted, life could move on. She felt the temptation to cup his cheek and caress his skin - his beard was longer now, he looked aged. Young and ancient at the same time as if he had lived through too many things in such a short period of time.

"You know," she said, pausing. "I've always thought that you were the splendidest. Fitz, about... I-"

"May I offer you a cup of tea?" He interrupted her. "It's just- in honour of the past."

Their voices overlapped, he finished after her. Sounds completely covered in an indistinguishable mix of sentences articulated with grammatical fashion - the urge to get to the end. Some did and some did not, it didn't matter: how many afternoons had they spent talking and drinking tea? Working on their respective assignments? Stolen glances, more than she liked to admit to herself. This was familiar. This was nice and comforting, solid ground to walk on, something that allowed them to move freely and with ease. Shifted feelings and unaltered desires - it was all knew, scary the idea of leaping: the day would come, soon, maybe, when they would have to make a choice. It would all be too much and unbearable for things to move on as they were used to. Time was not infinite. It was a challenge and a matter of time. They'd be ready.

"A cup of tea?"

"At my place. Only, we haven't seen each other in what feels like a lifetime."

"A lifetime? Now that seems like quite an exaggeration."

"So would you want to?"

"Would I want what?"

"Have a cup of tea. I think there's some marmalade in one of the cupboards too, though, as far as I know, it may be ancient."

"Won't your landlady mind? No female company upstairs, stuff like that."

All she knew was that her own landlady had spent at least forty minutes making Jemma promise not to have male company - inappropriate for everyone, really. It had gotten on and on, one of her housemates was already breaking the rule on a regular basis, sneaking out her beau first thing in the morning - Jemma had always found the stratagems hilarious. Surely, though her knowledge in the field was limited, the desire to keep houses respectable was something shared by most house owners; She would not put Fitz in an awkward position not now, not ever - it wouldn't be fair.

"The kitchen is not upstairs." He replied matter of factly. "And to be quite honest, I was never told anything about what was decorous and proper and what wasn't. Didn't feel the need to enquire either."

Relief washed over her unexpectedly. She had never considered the idea of Fitz meeting someone else, surely he would have mentioned it in his letters - she for one, would have. It was something she had never considered being jealous about and there was no need to, yet his statement in all its simplicity came as a reassurance. No one else, the contrary would have appeared preposterous. A stranger, someone lovely - a sharp pain in her heart at the thought of such a nonexistent situation. Did the thought of someone else appear as hilarious to him as it did to her? From the very first moment... they belonged... It felt right, a future with Fitz, when every word they had said to each other had done nothing but push them together: could they ever get away?

"Good. I mean- your choice."

"I know what you mean, Jemma." He smiled.

"So will you? Join me for a cup of tea, that is."

"Yes," she said. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Aliens (Protected Areas) (No.5) Order 1940.  
> \- The Enigma of the Arrival and the Afternoon (Giorgio de Chirico, 1912).  
> \- Westergait is Argyle Street's original name, it was renamed some time after the removal of the West Port in 1751. In case you've never been to Glasgow, Argyle Street is one of the main shopping streets in the city centre. It is the longest street by distance in the city centre running for 2.1 miles.


	7. In the Dread of This Their Desolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1942

 

Fitz, Jemma thought, looked incredibly vulnerable sitting there in front of her. Raw and exposed, as if both her visit and the invitation for tea that had preceded it had been a mistake; as if he was trying to back off. A retreat, hands held high in surrender, from a self-suggested and self-brought situation that could have quite easily been avoided. Mind miles away, no doubt wandering freely and unconstrained, thoughts turned to anything but the present moment: He was looking at her, but was he seeing her? There and not there, two places at the same time, and he was stuck in the one filled with trivial anecdotes about their daily routine. He had asked about her flatmates, she had told him - the little she knew anyway.

Now all that was left was silence and the crippling, overwhelming feeling that there was much more to the situation than met the eye. She was left wondering, as she looked at him, whether he considered all of this a mistake or if they had simply run ahead of themselves. The habitual assumption that their friendship went on smoothly and linear was being called into question, a preposterous idea considering that all had been going well until they had sat down for tea.

Simple questions, that at the beginning had been prompted by curious enquiries, were now another way of delaying inevitable confrontation. Who cared about her flatmates, had she in any way offended him? There always seemed to be more important topics to discuss and yet, now that there was plenty of time and silence to discuss them such painful questions refused to come out. Small talk had at some point, without either of them noticing, become just another mean that helped them cover their unsettling silence: safe at first, now they were stuck with it; It hang above their heads like a sword, a distraction, the only thing they could think of. Distance had opened up between them, some time during the past hour, fuelled by hesitancy and carefulness and it left them lost and dismayed as they tried to cover it by discussing nonsense.

Outside the sky was getting darker, clouds gathering at the horizon. Light blue replaced with darker shades of grey, up close and on further and careful inspection it looked like a surrealist and somehow apocalyptic sunset.

The lines of a poem, read by chance during her school years, came up to her mind as she looked out of the kitchen's window - for a moment it was all she could think about. Something to do with darkness being the universe, it had struck her at the time, a quick way to collect her thoughts. She was tempted to ask Fitz if he knew it too, they could discuss it and waste some more time or gain it before inevitable confrontations. He must, his literary education was vaster and more varied than her own. No good would come out of it.

Stillness and silence but for the wind blowing outside, howling, causing the window blinds to clatter. It would rain soon, a dark and stormy night, the weather forecast coming true at last! Earlier that day there had been doubts and concerns about the matters, voices loudly expressing disbelief as eyes looked at the clear blue sky - the tepid winter sun shining brightly over Bletchley.

Inside a neat picture; A stereotypical kitchen with nothing out of place. The house Fitz lodged in was warmer and more welcoming than hers: it looked and felt more like a home, granted it was inhabited by strangers who were sharing a roof because of work reasons. People thrown together by chance - there were plenty of them thought Jemma had overheard some Wrens at lunch stating the opposite - making a routine out of circumstances they had been imposed on. But this one, with the bedrooms upstairs and the small library in the living room, the kettle waiting to be filled sitting on the counter, and some flowers in a corner.

White porcelain cups with blue flowers painted on them and a small bowl of sugar between them - the whites appeared more brilliant it colour than they actually were, high contrast against the dark wooden table. Fitz's tea black, some dust at the bottom of the cup and brown rings caused by theine; Jemma's lighter - the splash of milk giving the liquid a beiger colour. Same as always, it was a well known scene with a well known setting were it not for the saucers that were not matching the cups of each other and the view outside the window - fields rather than ancient buildings, naked earth and a pebbled road rather than stones and bricks that had witness history and private lives developing and unfolding.  

"Lately I've been thinking quite a lot about my parents," Fitz said at last. The sentence came out in long pauses, an overall difficulty found in the articulation of each syllable - some sounds sounded guttural, as if they had stubbornly stuck in his throat, refusing to come out. "As one does, I suppose."

What's this all about, Jemma wanted to ask; It appeared as if nowadays Fitz was full of surprises.

Curiosity almost had the better of her. Almost. She knew from silent agreements and the inflection in his voice that it was a conversation that had to be left alone in its course - no further enquiries, no encouragement - lest it stopped. He did not talk about his parents - singularly yes, but never together - and it was not her business to ask about them. An odd story, she thought, albeit an interesting one; one way or the other it had been the beginning of something, its consequences still happening.

"I think it's because I've worked for my father before coming here, among other things at least." He paused, adding another spoon of sugar to his tea and then stirring it with mathematical precision. The spoon touching the porcelain produced a soft _ting_ at every turn. "I suppose some questions are bound to remain unanswered. My father doesn't talk about my mother and my mother doesn't talk about my father, they do not acknowledge each other's existence. It suits everyone fine, I suppose, but one cannot help but wonder... Why?"

He was making it sound like a case study - careful and precise, hypothesis to be checked - but he lacked the distance and the emotional detachment necessary for it. No coldness, it was close up and personal for he, or a young version of himself anyway, was at the centre of it all. One was always keen to find someone responsible for tragedy, someone to blame, and Jemma sincerely  hoped  that Fitz was not blaming himself - the long string of what if-s having nothing to do with him.

Such is life, she wanted to tell him, but his inner conflict and turmoil seemed t go further than a matter that could be reduced to mere responsibilities. Complex and private, it seemed as if Fitz was torn between extremes and possibilities, a lack of truth only enhancing a fundamental need for answers.

"And then... People always praising my father. I keep telling myself that it doesn't matter, that I do not care if they do, if there are such different versions of the same story." He sighed. "But I do, I do care. I can't help it. I was there and with every word, I thought I was over it. But I'm not."

"Fitz-"

"It doesn't make sense. I keep thinking that perhaps it was out of goodness, but those threats Jemma, that cold anger and disgust... It's absurd, but I'm starting to think that..." He stopped.

Think what? That Hannelore and Alistair Fitz had once been in love? That their marriage had been more than  a calculated move to get her out of Germany just as things were starting to get worse? Was this Fitz was so scared of, that such precious and tender feelings could degenerate in indifference if not hate? People and feelings were complicated, surely he knew that too.

Her memory went back to that summer day of the previous year, Fitz telling her about his father's threat: that perfect imitation of Alistair Fitz, the sheer terror induced by a voice void of any emotion - the same voice someone would use for, say, reciting the items on a shopping list. All those sharp consonants, each plosive marked with even more emphasis, each syllable neatly articulated, each pause calculated in its effect. What had happened and what had marked such a transformation, some questions were indeed inevitable.  Then another thought, slowly making its way to the front, was Fitz afraid to end up like his father? Was Fitz afraid to end up like him? After all they said that the apple never fell too far away from the tree. But this was Fitz they were talking about! Darling, dearest. She knew him! He was nothing like his father, the idea itself seemed preposterous. Oh to be able to tell him that he was the most open, loyal and caring person she knew!

"Maybe I'm just stuck in some sort of loop. On and on it goes, history repeating itself."

Why the need to turn it all into a cautionary tale? Why sit there and think that, at the end of everything, there was nothing but heartbreak, unhappiness, even resentment? The idea of being doomed and cursed, of grief and regret inevitably waiting, sounded stupid and yet how many before had thought _not us! Not us!_ only to be proven differently?

With an equal amount of courage and hesitation Fitz moved his hand ever so slightly, towards hers - inch by inch, forwards and then retreating again. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, natural and fluent as much as it could be, daring, nothing out of the ordinary; Except that it was. Everything was different, everything was new! It was calculated, lacking casualty, and made her jumpy - anyone walking in and they'd see it too, hands quickly withdrawn in shame as if being caught red-handed.

Her fingers touched his, the last couple of inches - disputing territory and eventually meeting midways. Skin resting on skin, fingers curling at the touch - closer and back again, small interruptions to think and plot: what next? How far were they willing to push themselves? It was nothing: a feeble, lingering touch and yet it meant everything and provided more explanations and reassurances than words ever could.

What were they doing? Playing with fate.

What were they doing? Pulling the strings of the shower bath.

Either way it was thrilling, unexplored territory that unfolded in front of them and was theirs to conquer. A sense of elation! Of lightness! Of leaping across boundaries! Her stomach fluttered as Fitz's fingers curled against her skin. If only this moment could last forever.

He smiled. It was a soft smile, a shy smile, and fondness oozing through it.

Happiness verging on bliss, it was contagious.

She felt as if she, they, had caught it by accident.

"It does take quite a lot of courage," he said.

"I know." She paused. "I know."

Out of time and space; Bletchley was as far away as the war was. Their worries and personal histories had been dismissed: it was an attempt to jump while the whole world was being reduced to the two of them sitting in a kitchen, two cups of lukewarm tea in front of them. It was a strange microcosm that provided a sense of security, granting them courage, for as long as they remained there in silence there would be no consequences. It was a world made out only by the present moments: differences had been smothered and now they were risking it all, facing a new and different life. Every other possible outcome was quickly disappearing. 

This was the beginning, Jemma was sure, the moment closer to infinite. Time had run to and would run from here - millions of possibilities reduced to one: Fitz's hand resting on hers, sweaty palms touching - sticky skin resting on sticky skin.

This was real life, Jemma thought, not mere sickly potentialities. They had somehow abandoned the realm of the conjunctive: It was happening.

The past few months were being re-framed, looked at under a different light: sharper and less dreamlike. This was the realm of reality, not that of mere sickly potentialities. They were living up to unexpressed expectations, acting of feelings. The ghost terror and paralysis fading away, getting quieter - a background noise they could just as easily ignore. As the poem went, Darkness was the universe! But then, under such oddly specific circumstances, Jemma was tempted to tell him, grief and regret didn't matter; And if they did, then she, for one, would prefer to have something concrete rather a shadow of a possible life.

A drop of sweat on Jemma's forehead rolled down her temple and cheek, providing a ticklish sensation. Time seemed to have been slowed down and painfully slow, the yellow-ish light coming from outside giving the kitchen an unreal and eerie atmosphere. Her stomach tightened involuntarily as she looked down at Fitz's hand on hers; his thumb was brushing over her knuckles now, slowly moving to her hand's back, gently caressing her freckled skin. First love, it was all new to her this was different than whatever feelings she may have felt in the past - serious, unfading, there seemed to be a hint of doom in it all and yet, perhaps, she was too enwrapped in other people's thinking and influences.

"I don’t suppose,” she said without continuing, the ending of the sentence hanging in the air between them, filling the room.

A key turning in the keyhole, a distant noise, it had nothing to do with _them_.

Then the door creaking - hands quickly withdrawn and Jemma pushing back her chair - and unspoken words settling between them, they could have been caught: anyone could have seen - a thrilling sensation on the verge of vitality. Was it her or did everything appear more vivid? Clearer?

It couldn’t have lasted, but it was… something. An overture! A promise! Memories flooding her brain: two people at dawn, standing in the mist, faces close. Then that all but irresistible impulse again as she promised herself that one day, soon, she’d act accordingly. 

Steps in the corridor, getting closer, and Jemma saying “I really should get going.“

"Already?"

"I'm afraid it's going to rain soon."

She'd stay if he asked her to. But if he didn't, she'd take his silence as if he wanted to be left alone. Nothing much had happened, but his voice bore some delusion. It was up to Fitz, she decided, to set the pace. She was carrying out a planned withdrawal, fragile territory when there were still personalities and fears to take into consideration.

"Darling, I'm home." Someone said from the door.

"That would be Hunter," explained Fitz, trying to hold back laughter. "In the kitchen!"

Steps getting closer and louder, and then a young man stopping at the door - leaning against its frame. A couple of years older than her and Fitz, Hunter looked oddly familiar but she couldn't be sure where she'd seen him before; There were too many people at Bletchley, for all she knew she could have seen him at lunch or dinner, out and about.

"Didn't tell me you'd have company, mate. But don't let me disturb you, I'm just here to pick something up."

"I was just leaving."

"Sure thing. Just try not to forget any stockings here," he told her. "Got thrown out of my previous room because of that."

"It's not... Won't be a problem," said Fitz quickly; no paused, the sentence came out as one long word.

"Lance Hunter."

"Jemma Simmons. How do you do?"

They shook hands, a solid and firm grip.

"It's been a pleasure," he said and just like that Hunter was gone, up the stairs and out of sight.

She turned towards Fitz, looking at him, gathering the courage to speak. Then she said, "Did you know Hunter already?"

"No, why?"

Because of Hunter's surprised look, for starters. Because of Hunter's silent request for confirmation and Fitz's nod. Because of the easiness and playfulness in their banter that gave away a sense of comradery that in no way could have been achieved in a matter of days. She knew Fitz, it took him weeks to move past the stage of awkwardness and for reservedness to disappear. He was lying. He was blatantly lying to her, with such an uncommon nonchalance she would have never thought it possible.

She heard herself say "Nothing. It doesn't matter."

And it didn't, perhaps, for the secret with business was to mind one's own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Lord Byron's Darkness (line 7-8 "And men forgot their passions in the dread / of this their desolation").


	8. To Wait in Silence, not to Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally called "thig math à mulad, biatch!" so there's that.
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1942

 

The Germans called it Poseidon, like the God.

Bletchley called it Shark, like the sea creature.

The Navy U-Boat traffic encrypted by an M4, a four rotor Enigma Machine: twenty six times more difficult to decipher, unique and by all means unbreakable. Introduced at the beginning of February, it had shut Bletchley out of all access to the Naval communication networks - the convoys on the Atlantic had been left to their own fate, facing unknowing menaces with no aid coming from the continent.

A four rotor Enigma: brilliant and fascinating. For the Germans it meant victory, increased secrecy, and an advantage when it came to the war that was meant to become the longest, largest and most complex naval battle in history.

A four rotor Enigma: brilliant and fascinating. For Bletchley it meant trouble; there they were in the dark once more! Intercepted messages no longer made sense, the strings of letters remaining in their gobbledygook form - unreadable and unusable.

The situation was similar to the one in the early days, the one that preceded both the decryption of Enigma and the final breakthrough. Or so Jemma liked to imagine, an assumption that for sure had some truth in it - it was about looking at the details and coming to specific conclusions that were deeply rooted in reality. What was there? Blackboards that were being wiped clean and crumpled sheets of paper thrown into the bins at the side of their desks. What else? The midnight bell ringing announcing the end of a shift and the beginning of a new day, marking with its piercing sound  their failure.

Panic and frustration enhanced by stress - palpable, tangible, and increasing day by day. The air in Hut Eight was, most of the time, unbearable. She had not been there at the very beginning, but she thought it worse: by now they all knew what they were capable of. They had broken it once, surely that must have meant something, and it was absurd to imagine they could not do it again. After all, they were the smartest people in Britain, good at solving problems, and what was Enigma if not the biggest problem of all?

And then the poster hanging on the wall. Unnecessary, really, she hated the mere thought of it. There it was looking at them, staring them in the face: one could not avoid the sight of it, in a matter of masochism ones attention was always drawn to it, eyes landing on it every time one looked up. If it had been put there to encourage them to work harder she couldn't tell, but the effect it provided was the opposite - she'd avoid Hut Eight like the plague if it meant not seeing that wretched thing ever again.

And then the poster hanging on the wall. A reminder of their constant failure, it showed the monthly tonnage of cargo that was being carried by the convoys on the Atlantic: the convoys they were out of touch with, the cargo that now was resting at the bottom of the ocean - useless and forgotten.

People - director generals and perhaps some at the very heart of ULTRA - entering and exiting the Hut, the door creaking at every pull, her head turning every time at the sound. Both sides were waiting for news: on one hand, inquisition about progress; on the other,  information coming from higher ranks. But every time the door had opened, Jemma had soon discovered, only admissions about lack of progress had followed - prompting the same reply: let's hope they were dead before reaching the bottom of the ocean.

Seventy three convoys in February.

The number of sinking convoys would soon start to grow exponentially, of that everyone was sure.

Then March fourteen: A long message containing the news of Dönitz's promotion to full Admiral. It was a message they could read if they were going to base their work on the assumption that the particularly long Shark transmission was encoding the same message in other code they had already broken. The usual procedure: The Bombes were set to work on it and Bletchley succeeded in recovering that day's keys. Six Bombes working nonstop for seventeen days, by then the information had already become old - irrelevant and unusable.

Ninety five convoys by the end of the month.

Two more deciphered messages. The general estimation was that it would take one hundred Bombes, working all day, to decipher one message in time.

A hundred and twenty convoys in May.

Their failure in doing their job was being measured in dead bodies and lost supplies.

Ninety five convoys in September.

The poster still hanging on the wall.

Then October: Ten o'clock in the evening, a cold and windy night on the west Mediterranean.

Then October: Lieutenant Anthony Fasson, age twenty nine, Able Seaman Colin Grazer, age twenty two, and NAAFI canteen assistant Tommy brown, age eighteen.

Then October: The British HMS Petard, in conjunction with the destroyers Pakenham and Hero, the escort destroyers Dulverton and Hurworth, and an RAF Sunderland flying boat of 47 Squadron based in Port Said, attacked and badly damaged the German submarine U-559, a U-Boat under the command of Kapitänleutnant Hans Heidtmann. A hole had been opened in the submarine's tower causing its sinking.

The superior officers explained that the British bombs had forced the Germans to emerge onto the surface, that the crew had fled without even thinking about destroying the four rotor Enigma they had on board. Stupid to imagine that the seawater would get to the codebooks before the enemy - the soluble print washed away. Lucky them, for Fasson, Grazier and Brown had happened; They had boarded the abandoned and sinking submarine, rescuing the documents. Fasson and Grazier had died in their attempt to rescue the M4.

Someone in the room said, let's hope they were dead before they reached the bottom of the ocean. Let's hope it was quick, eh? On the bright side, both the Wetterkurzschlüssel, used to transmit the meteorological  conditions, and the Kurzsignalheft, the short-signal book, were on their way to Bletchley.

Now November: Six days to the end of the month.

Another year had passed, soon they would enter the fourth year of war.

Now November: A Tuesday.

Ten months in the dark and the code books on their way, sooner or later it had to end. And what a marvellous thing to be given hope when hope had been faint or none. She was desperately clinging to it, Fitz would be proud: he had told her _Nes Gadol Hayah Sham_ and the story of the oil that had kept on burning long enough, despite the odds - bringing hope.

Now November: A cold and early morning.

The air smelled of frost and earth, a harsh and wintery smell  that filled Jemma's nostrils as she pedalled towards the train station in the early hours of the morning. The sky was still grey, the sun low at the horizon. The first beams were shining through the clouds; Shy and pallid, they seemed to confirm what the weather forecast had announced, a clear and sunny day, albeit a cold one. Mist had been announced too and there it was, lingering in the air and lifting itself from the fields, visibility restored at last!

Jemma glanced quickly at the watch on her wrist, her movements filled with urge. Feet moving faster and faster, as fast as she could, as fast as her half asleep brain allowed. The world still appeared foggy and blurred, a world looked at through lenses of exhaustion and lack of sleep - not even the rush of adrenaline had helped her wake up completely. Round and round, her bicycle had never quite recovered from a fall and now made a loud clack followed by a series of squeaking noises each time the pedals completed a turn. An embarrassing noise that announced her presence long before she appeared in sight; She should probably reconsider Fitz's offer to fix it.

The aim had been to wake up at the very last minute, get dressed, skip breakfast and make her way to the train station to meet Fitz. They would eat on the road, somewhere a nice - a treat for months spent working hard, a way to spend more time together and make the most out of it.

Then the call. The telephone had rung unexpectedly, Jemma had heard it through the residues of sleep and the closed door, ignoring it because it could hardly be for her. Then the landlady calling her name and Jemma making her way down the stairs, still half asleep and only half decent - to grab the speaker. It had taken her a while to connect the words and let them sink in: they needed her at the Hut, her shifts had been rescheduled, a matter of complete urgency.

A quick breakfast: a toast with no butter and no marmalade with the same taste as cardboard, eaten while she was getting dressed. Her eyes always landing on her watch and her mind going back to the same thought over and over again: she was meant to go to London with Fitz and just like that their plans had been cancelled. If she went fast enough she'd catch him in time and explain, it was important to tell him that she was sorry, that if it was to her to decide she'd go with him, no doubts on that, never. And so, just like that, in a matter of words, plans had been cancelled, her presence requested at work.

Now the aim was to get to the station in time if not early, so as to explain the situation properly and apologize for the inconvenience. They'd have a minute or to, not enough, but it had to do. Faster, in the middle of a field, her entire body shaking as she pedalled across the irregular ground with its small heaps and holes - a matter of equilibrium and concentration.

Faster, she had to go faster.

A trip to London, she had been looking forward to it and very much so. They hadn't called it a date, but they might as well have - never said out loud, the word hung between them in a comforting way. Perhaps, she thought now, it had been for the best for it would now guard them against disappointment and discontent.

They'd go to London and see from there: a friendship running effortlessly, it was up to Fitz to set the pace of it all - if it were for her, it would be now, always and forever.

They would not go to London and they'd still see from there: perhaps it was time for her to take matters into her own hands. In the restless nights spent awake, with nightmares about sinking convoys haunting her dreams, she had realized that some time during the years of their friendship Fitz had become her life, her heart, her home. Impossible now to imagine a time before. Hilarious to imagine that things could be different - not wrong, they were making active choices, shaping their destiny, but it all seemed too real and palpable for anybody to enter the picture and change it.

The train station at last, a small and familiar building. Jemma dropped her bike, ungallantly placing it against a wall - it threaten to fall down, handle shifting completely to the side, and she stood there ready to catch it just in case, before taking her bag and making her way towards the platforms. Strange to think that it was now familiar and less threatening, part of a scenery she knew well.

Fitz was sitting on one of the wooden benches, reading a newspaper. He seemed deeply immersed in his thoughts, all bundled up in his winter clothes. She stopped, looking at him, smaller and uncertain steps - the distance between them seemed infinite and perhaps, Jemma thought, it was better this way: more time to come up with the right words to say. And what was there to say under such circumstances? That she was sorry? It didn't even start to cover it. That she was tired that one thing or the other always seemed to get between them? Working a Bletchley was an Opportunity, capital O for where else could she get such a position and such an important job? They seemed to take her seriously and she was valued, her mind was valued, but if it wasn't for Bletchley... where would they be now?

"Fitz!" She called him.

He beamed at her, hand half raised in greeting. "I say, I thought you'd get here at the very last, having finished at midnight and all of that."

"I-"

His smile faded as he looked at her bag. It broke her head. Realization settled it, and he said "You're not coming, are you?"

Predictable words. Simple words. She hoped nothing else followed, nothing harsh anyway.

Jemma shook her head. "I got called back, it's-"

"A secret."

"I was going to say important, but nevertheless you're right." She paused. "They called this morning, I didn't... Couldn't..."

"It doesn't matter, really."

"But it does. It does!" She paused and stretched out her hand for him to take it and get up. "And it certainly does make one believe in something.  I'm so sorry, Fitz."

"Don't be," he said and then added. "Really."

In silence they stood there facing each other and wasting precious time. Words had deserted them and she felt the crippling sensation that it was either now or never, A sudden and unexpected revelation, how many times could they still go through this before they would get bored and change their minds? They had been on the edge of this so many time that not only did the situation appear familiar down to the smallest of details, but it also bore a touch of playfulness. It took something trivial as the arrival of a train or that of person to make them change their minds and slip backwards to what had always been.

Fitz stepped closer, the newspaper abandoned on the bench opened on the sections of announcements - he had circled some lines, scribbling on the margins. Slowly and hesitantly, it felt as if time had stopped but duration was continuing: everything slowed down  to the minimum speed possible. They were out of the world and insecure in their actions, the lingering in front of a forking path sweet and reassuring.

Perhaps she had to say something, but then what? It always seemed easier to think about feelings rather than expressing them, words were no good, but actions... Jemma moved her hand to the side of his head, fixing his hair, and then moved gently placing her hand on his cheek. His stubble ticklish underneath her fingertips, the contact light and feeble. It was up to him now, she thought, to decide what to do: they could risk something, leap, or they could stop here and go back once more into a familiar and reassuring territories made of certainties. Possibilities lining up in which their happiness could be doubled or destroyed, it was like rolling a dice six thousand times and yet, once action had been taken, only one would become reality.

Surprisingly, Fitz took her hand: his palm resting on the back of her hand for a little while longer, his thumb caressing her skin. Then, she felt his fingers close around her wrist, a soft and gentle touch that made her yearn for more: to be this close! And closer, perhaps, with more going on than this. This, she wanted to tell him, was what she sometimes dreamt about.

It felt like he was pushing her away, the smallest of pressures on her wrist and Fitz carefully pushing her hand away.  Panic! She was about to retrieve her hand altogether , in fear of having pushed too far and having stepped over some line that had only recently been established. Was she overstepping boundaries? Or was this about fear of being seen? They were in plain sight, yet the train station was empty and would be at such a ghastly hour. The train to London was not bound to be there for another ten minutes, the weather too cold for people to spend more time than necessary in the cold winter air.

His mouth on her palm - kissing the inside of her hand. His lips lingered, the action lasting seconds more than necessary.

"Your hands are freezing," he said matter of factly.

"Fancy that!"

They laughed, a warm and genuine laugh bubbling up at the back of their throats and coming out crystal clear between them. Happiness there, disappointment in the cancelled trip almost overcome.

"No, really, they're like little ice-buckets."

Her hands in his, foreheads touching. She said, "Are they now?"

"Hmmm."

His eyes lowered, looking at her lips and back up again. He smiled mischievously, the corners of his mouth slowly rising. Then her mouth at the corner of his, an all but irresistible impulse finally followed. A silent question and a soft declaration. But this and no further, they just had to say it: there was space and time to change their minds.

Fitz turned his head.

It was tender and languid movements, the feelings of lips pressed against lips enough for the time being and them unable or unwilling to take it any further. They stopped and she moved her hands behind his neck, playing with his blond curls and holding him close, smiling against his lips and Fitz moved his hands behind her back. Seconds ticked away and them not moving, that was the kiss.

They parted, smiling.

"How much time do we have?"

"A couple of minutes. Not enough anyway."

"Never enough, or so it seems."

She opened her mouth and gulped, trembling lips as their faces were once more only inches apart. For a moment she felt watched by her past self - in shock and amusement - as she leaned forwards for more.

They could be seen. This was not allowed. There was no way to justify and explain away what was going on between them. They were vulnerable and exposed and should have stopped. This wasn't some dark corner or a private room: a changing society, but the rules were still there. This wasn't a three seconds long kiss stolen behind everyone's back, nor was it a walk in the fields  far away from everyone's eyes. This was something audacious, daring even, from which, if caught, they could not walk away. A changing society, thought Jemma, and yet they weren't the only ones to leap across boundaries: her roommates, Hunter, and plenty more. It wasn't  a good thing to find oneself living by an outmoded code of conduct. People took you to be a fool. Jemma was coming round to their opinion, and Fitz too it seemed. What did it matter anyway? There were more important things going on at the moment. She had never felt this bold before.

Basking in this momentary and long wanted situation, that was the kiss.

And then Jemma, quite daringly, touched his lips with the tip of her tongue and he opened his mouth until it was the feeling of tongues touching - moist and slippery muscle against moist and slippery muscle. It was exploration and hunger, the kiss becoming less chaste with every sigh and every movement, sweet and demanding and filled with promises.

Happiness, elation, and the knowledge of reciprocated feelings, that too was the kiss.

He held her close and she clung to him, smiling - nay, grinning - against his lips. On top of the world an entire future ahead of them, that was how they felt. If only it could last forever.

Breathless they parted. Foreheads touching and a string of saliva going from mouth to mouth, and a content smile on their lips: such was the aftermath.

Their breaths - irregular and erratic - mixed, small clouds of condensation between them: this too was the aftermath.

"Oh, my dear." She whispered. "I wish things were different."

"And I!" He paused. "But they are not, I've got a train to catch and you've got work; There's nothing to be done about it. But when you're done, with your work... I'll be ready... I'll be ready for anything you ask."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dolphin, the main cipher for the German Navy; Ostrich, the same thing for superior officers  
> Porpoise, the main cipher for terrestrial vehicles; Porpoise, the same thing for superior officers.  
> \- 1/2/1942 Introduction of Shark;  
> \- 24/11/1942 The Wetterkurzschlüssel and the Kurzsignalheft got to Bletchely;


	9. Star Sign out of Whack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1942

 

Hunter's voice coming from downstairs followed by Bobbi's. Laughter, careless and free, a guttural sound and half a snort. Then bickering, starting with an imprecation and a quick string of profanities, loud enough to echo through the empty hallway and reach the second floor while still remaining a distinguishable and carefully articulated  string of syllables. It seemed to travel all the distance, closing it, and ultimately reduce the whole world to that: A kitchen scene they were not part of, sporadic words overheard despite the door ajar, a constant and unpredictable change of intonation. It was impossible not to listen.

A microcosm, a world all on its own. Parallel to theirs and only brief overlapping, so distant and disconnected that it felt odd if not surreal to imagine that it was all happening at the same time, yet with fading boundaries they were being made active participants. It was difficult not to comment on it.

Private history moving on, expanding and unfolding, and lives happening - both shaped by trivial events and intertwined with History. It was hard sometimes to wrap her head around it, when all she could think of was their success in having broken Shark at last, the feeling of elation having yet to fade. That was her world, monopolized by a major breakthrough, granting her freedom and hope, an all but irresistible impulse to scream out of joy and share such extraordinary news. It was a victory, it was a secret, it was validation - better than anything experienced before, it was the ultimate proof that their minds were as good as machines and could beat them.

The day of her and Fitz's kiss surpassed in happiness yet not diminished in its importance, their moment at the railway station fading and becoming second best, for both the Wetterkurzschlüssel and the Kurzsignalheft had been handed over to them. Simple red covers with black titles and the symbol of Nazi Germany printed right beneath, ruined pages printed with water soluble ink: Hut Eight's most prized possessions.

There, right in front of them, the back way to enter Shark.

There, right in front of her, something that made up the cancelled trip to London - consolation enough for plans so drastically interrupted.

Here was what they knew: The U-Boats sent codes twelve letters long, all messages that contained the meteorological conditions on the Atlantic. T: Lufttemperatur in Ganzen-Celsius Graden. -28 °C: A; -27 °C: B; -26 °C: C...

Every day the German Navy received bulletins from the U-Boats and retransmitted them after having encrypted them with a three rotor Enigma Machine.

Every day Bletchley received those bulletins and sent them to Hut Eight to be deciphered or at least worked on. It was a long and wearing process that featured the people working in Hut Eight comparing the bulletins and the cipher books, trying to guess Shark's possible settings for each day.

Not enough, they were still losing convoys. To use the Bombes to find out about a four rotor Enigma Machine's original setting was a waste of precious time: twenty days minimum, if they were lucky, a small portion of time if one looked at the bigger picture but still too long for the messages to still be relevant at the end of the process.

But now that it was over, the final breakthrough having happened at last, the whole world appeared different: sharper while the past was starting to fade and to become blurred, a sense of unrealness lingering on it all. Hope was the world, as was happiness, and as she sat on Fitz's bed the adrenaline was still hers keeping her wide awake despite the sleep deprivation and the cumulated exhaustion of months spent in despair. She was restless on the verge of screaming, and her mind was starting to fail her for she could not tell whose idea it had been only that it had not been her own.

There were her and Fitz in his bedroom, there were Hunter and Bobbi in the kitchen - millions of lives happening in synch; But above all, they were _in._ Mere sensations mixing and shifting at the speed of light, hardly ever the same: Those Jemma could recall and talk about, the easiest of things for they belonged to her. And then a voice saying that they would need their own M4 to break Shark.

A joke. It had started with a joke. They were lucky they had something at all - those worn-out cipher books with the soluble ink, now kept under lock with the original Enigma and some out dated set of cipher sheets. And they all knew they would never get a four rotor Enigma unless they would magically become a U-Boat or a second strike of luck was to happen. Then silence, minds thinking, and the world stopping - for a moment no one breathed; for a moment the entirety of Hut appeared as if frozen in time  until someone else said only U-Boats had M4s which meant... which meant that the fourth rotor must be kept neutral if the Navy Stations were able to decipher the messages.

Relief washing over them, they had worked until the early hours of the morning coming up with a menu for the Bombes so that they could test their theories. The bell had rung and they had been thanked and dismissed, walking out of the Hut under the Admiral's attentive eyes - it would be a problem of those working the following eight hours. Rest at last, real one as the reassurance that all was well settled in.

Free of worries, free of the past - it was the beginning of something new, something filled with hope, desperation slowly fading becoming alien and foreign, strange to think that it had once been hers at all. The whole world had appeared different, reshaped and reconstructed, as she had pedalled to Fitz's for breakfast and later as they had kissed out of sight, in the morning sun, in the cold winter air that smelled as much of death and destruction as it was lively and hopeful for the first time in months.

Hands touching, fingers curling at the contact - naked skin resting on naked skin - eyes unable to break contact: She had followed him upstairs and now? Now she was sitting on his bed, watching him pack and passively taking part in Hunter and Bobbi's argument.

There had been an argument earlier on, the shadows of it slowly clearing off, and it was incredible if not odd the quickness with which it all changed. On and on, it was difficult to follow when in a matter of seconds playful voices would get sharper, stronger and harsher words, inescapable accusations that they could never take back. And then light hearted bantering again.

Hunter and Bobbi and their peculiar way of making the whole world participant to their private drama. Always like that, Fitz had told her, Bobbi and Hunter had always been like that: filling the room even when you were away; It dragged you in and once there, you could not turn around. A race, a game, someone had to win it and there were alliances to be made. One always felt the need to pick a side.

And he knew from what? A couple of weeks of acquaintance.

Something about it was missing. Something about it was off. Details were not fitting together: The story was too carefully crafted to sound true. She needed more to be convinced and even more to constantly bite her tongue and letting it slip Always and forever. It could have been because of Bletchley after all, only a couple of months before a warrant had been issued telling them not to talk with anyone, not to talk anywhere: while travelling, in the billet, by one's own fireside, even in your own hut. But that too didn't seem right, for Fitz had only just arrived. Why hide a friendship that dated back months if not years?

It might as well have been a misunderstanding on her part, wouldn't be the first time.

One day she'd confront him, she promised herself. Under different circumstances, when all of this would be over. But there she was too tired and exhausted letting it slip, slip, slip. Away it went.

One day they'd have to discuss it, it was inevitable: clearheaded and clarity of judgement, lies wiped away and explanations granted. They could reach the limit while at the same time remain in a safe territory of secrecy - nothing more than needed information and clarifications escaping their mouths.

Back resting against the backboard, she throw her shoes away and crossed her legs, shifting her position - the mattress squeaking under her weight. Life went on, a strange notion border lining with the absurd. Sometimes it was hard to remember that there was an entire world, millions of people going on with their lives; the trick was to find something anything and leave work at the doorstep. Hours just for her. Sometimes she found herself caring too much. Perhaps the real question was whether or not the day would come in which it all became too much - not the first nor the last what if one day work could no longer be left at the door? Still, at least Fitz was there that was a silver lining, something to hold on to. Stability in a  time of chaos.

Watching him prepare his luggage made her long for a day when all of this would be left behind, a reconstruction of life starting the moment when documents would be burnt and Enigma machines put away, gathering dust on some forgotten shelves. It would all become Britain's best kept secret, no doubt on that, a shadow in their past - information and history they would feel no need to bring up.

They'd walk away from it, hopefully, and rebuild their lives.

They could leave and live, their love a society a real one with chance to grow.

They could be open and honest with no fear of being court martialed.

"Are you going to see your mother?" she asked, turning around, the whole bed moving beneath her. "Before going to London."

"That's the plan, though I'm not looking forward to either."

"Either?"

"The latter." Fitz quickly corrected himself. "Could you hand me my passport? It's in the top drawer."

She got up, mattress screeching.

In their silence they heard Hunter's voice, indistinctive chattering, and Bobbi laughing. Then their voices, closer and less confused, perfectly audible. _I'm serious, Bob. I don't need someone reckless and stupid, Hunter, I need you alive._

"What's the story with them anyway?" Jemma asked.

"They used to be married, then it got nasty, parted ways for some time. A long time. Hunter calls it old addiction, and tragic mistake. I'd say it's life and second chances, people growing out their mistakes and granting forgiveness. Starting fresh."

"Hmm that's lovely."

"We could all do with them, when the time comes." He paused, pensive, stopping what he was doing and eyes gazing straight in front of him.

Vulnerable, it seemed personal something that made her wonder what he was up to. Same energy as five years ago, secrets consuming him, but what was there to forgive? Nothing, he hadn't done anything at all.

"Passport." he went on. "Left drawer on the top, among the rest of the paper documents."

A wooden drawer, three large ones - his clothes, Jemma presumed, which now for the majority lay on the floor unfolded a heap next to his opened suitcase. And six smaller ones, on top of it a tin box the one she had gifted him all those years ago. It felt like a lifetime, they had been two different people then and with what horror she had realized that Fitz had been right all along: naive, she had been so utterly naive in her thoughts and words, and hopeful to an extent that now seemed exaggerated. Sad that life had embittered her, made her colder, then such she feared was life. But there were times, and the positive thing was it was more often than now, when the girl she had once been surfaced again in the smallest of things. That for sure was good. That for sure was something to hold on to. 

"You still got it." she passed her hand on it, fingers outlining the village scene. Oh to live in such a village now, frozen in time it seemed idyllic. The thirst for adventure had long been sedated, how long could they still go on like this?

"For my most prized possessions, you said, though I'm afraid it's been empty for years."  He paused. "But for your letters."

"All those fake stories about a radio factory." Jemma joked.

"All those fake stories about moving to London and work for father."

"Feeding each other lies."

"What a time, eh?"

_If you and- Bobbi! I won't be part of your shenanigans._

"I'm sorry." Fitz got up, walking towards the door past her, and opening it.

The door creaked behind him as it closed.

Temptation, an uncontrollable itch to follow him. This, following him, was something she had never thought herself capable of doing: it was an invasion of Fitz's privacy, something she could not come back from. One thing was questioning his explanations, who didn't nowadays? It was just a sign of the times, another was getting involved and spying on him even though that spying led nowhere - no reports, she'd keep it to herself: stolen answers that hopefully would make her feel more at ease with it all.

This was something, it had to be.

This was a very much calculated dialogue, Hunter yelling Bobbi's name in places that were too strategically placed for them to be a mere coincidence.

Was Bletchley making her paranoid? Probably, it was like living on the edge. Quietly she walked towards the door, the floor cold under her feet filtering through the woollen socks. Careful not to make it screech, there were some loosened boards that creaked each time one stepped on them. A great deal of hilarity on his side when she had stayed late- need to leave quietly in the morning vanishing with a creaking floor and laughter filling the room. Louder at a plea to shut up. Happy times. At the time it had felt as if he had never loved her more than in that moment and that perhaps she should tell him in honesty about quiet feelings that had long been lingering inside her.

And wouldn't it be great, she had thought, if only it could be like that always? Always together, always happy, always alone, always in love.

Their voices were loud and getting frantic - thoughts slipping away and words not fully managing to express them all in time. They were trying to whisper but their voices were harsh, influenced by anger and therefore perfectly audible. It was a race trying who'd lose it first. Composure, or the mere appearance of it, was being dropped and Hunter's words were being covered by his Bobbi's voice with the same speed. It was a crescendo of emotions, pleas for Bobbi to stop running away and turn around were now being replaced by full sentences that carried no requests in them, only facts.

Anger was boiling beneath the surface, feelings were starting to explode, and rationality was slipping away and vanishing quicker and quicker. Their mumbles and grumbles, all their actions and inaction, the truth was coming up and  was being exposed in outbursts that seemed to grow and be revealed with an intensity and strength that could match any storm. Even the air appeared electric, the sense of stillness and peace that usually characterized the house was gone, and there seemed to be something sharp about it, something heavy and oppressing. It could be cut with a knife.

Jemma slowed down, clutching the passport she was holding close to her chest, and stopped before stepping onto the corridor. From above she watched them silently, her vision impaired by the handrail - a picture of wooden spikes against familiar faces, striped, and half hidden from her view. The scene in front of her, so private in its nature, was something that she had no wish to interrupt nor to find himself dragged into. Yet there she was, dragged in, curiosity getting the better of her: she knew nothing nor was it any of her business what had caused Fitz, Hunter and Bobbi to reach their breaking point, but a strange temptation to stay was washing over her - it was impossible to resist.

Silence fell. Fitz, Bobbi and Hunter looked at each other in confusion, feeling getting quieter, their temper wearing off. Nothing more was to be said, it was a silent exchange that set boundaries and minds alike - between the three of them objectives were being made clear and could not be misinterpreted by anyone who was an active participant in such a silent exchange. There was no space for misunderstandings or confusion.

"Well, that's settled then," said Bobbi angrily.

"Bobbi!"

Jemma watched Bobbi leave in a hurry, Hunter's half raised hand completely ignored. Heavy steps and feet stamping the ground, Fitz seemed willing to run after her but stopped when Bobbi turned around. For a moment they looked at each other, a strange staring contest: it seemed as if the first one to look away would admit defeat if not a hidden weakness; They could or would not do it.

"Don't, both of you," Bobbi said at last, turning around and making her way outside.

The last thing she heard as she closed Fitz's bedroom door behind her, unease and regret settling in and quickly so, was the house door being violently shut close and Fitz all but screaming _Scheiße!_ An odd choice for she knew, and quite well indeed, that he relied on German only in situations of extreme gravity.


	10. To Dreamers and Their Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1943

 

Hut Two was brightly illuminated. With the tables and the chairs pushed to the sides it looked different, bigger, as if it could hold more than eight hundred people. Almost unrecognizable, with some decorations untidily hanging on the walls, but for the familiar smell of mold, spoiled institutional food, damp clothes and cigarettes - typical and characteristic, it was a poignant smell that filled one's nostrils for a long after having exited the room. The buzzing of indistinct voices, that too was something that could always be found inside the Hut: on a bad day, it enhanced one's headache; on a good one, it came as a surprising reminder that despite all the secrecy and the warnings people still found plenty of things to talk about.

A canteen turned into a place for recreation. Gone was the queue for food and the people already sitting down and enjoying their meals - grey slices of whale meat and bread whose colour had stopped looking natural years ago; Now, there were people standing in corners and chatting, drinking beer, and music played loudly. It was a place for recreation and small talk, the stage for organized evenings of entertainment during those months when outside concerts were out of the question.

People's voices adding up to the music, a cacophony of sounds as distracting as it was unpleasant: to focus on both things at once was impossible, conversations already hard to followed missed pieces of vital information and were rising in volume - a vain attempt to be heard from above the ballroom musicians playing in the corner. Laughter from the couples dancing to the fox trot, some more coordinated than other.

"I like you like this," said Jemma looking at Fitz.

She smiled at him, the corners of her mouth slowly rising, eyes crinkling. It was a soft smile, a reassuring one, filled with love - large, teeth exposed by parted lips, on the verge of a grin. They hadn't seen each other in weeks: different schedules standing in their way, making conversation difficult, their entire relationship had, against their own will, been reduced to minutiae and words of circumstances that didn't inquire further than their well being. But there they were now, not alone but quite for they didn't seem to matter. Too many people, too many things going on, it was relieving not to be at the centre of attention - not the only couple with a blossoming romance either for such things were at the order of the day.

Side by side and living their life, their hands almost touching! A blessing, really, to sit there so careless and free, to have time for each other after weeks of separation. All of a sudden it felt like a plunge back into normality, into real life, everything else forgotten. And what else? Liberty to sit down, lay back, take a breath! Moments away from life. Moments away from History.

Two people out for a drink, out for a date - a definition that had been cleared up so as to leave no doubts regarding the nature of such an evening and the ending it could have. She'd ask him to go home with her and stay for the night, what would happen then was yet to be decided - planning it seemed wrong, they'd see but there was an unopened box of French Letters in her drawer, a small tin box she had gotten from one of the girls in exchange for two packages of cigarettes. A small under desk trade system, a feeling of comradery - that she'd miss, it was both hilarious and entertaining, thrilling to exchange goods under everyone's eyes with complete nonchalance. 

Two people, her and Fitz, out for a drink, out for a date. It could have happened anywhere: Bletchley, Cambridge, London. They had been on the edge of this so many times that it was quite preposterous to image it never happening; Dreams becoming reality, building anticipation at the risk of it not measuring up with reality: they'd find each other, no matter where. History eternally balanced.

"You didn't like me before?" Fitz took a sip from his beer, the liquid cold, refreshing, and the glass is covered in condensation - droplets of humidity running down the transparent surface. His fingers leave a print when he puts it down. And laughed, the beverage almost coming out of his nostrils, his face distorted into a grimace.

"I did. I did. I do!" Her voice came out apologetically despite the clear nature of his joke, a playful banter she failed to catch. "But ever since you came back, you look relieved. You look as if someone lifted the weight of the world off your shoulders."

One less thing to worry about. It took one person to recognize it, the change in Fitz was familiar to her own: his way of going through life different, lighter, less complicated. She knew that feeling well and quite well indeed. Features softened, less jumpiness, less secrecy, he no longer looked afraid of being caught off guard or being told off. Peace. Something, anything, had happened: this Fitz, this version of him, painfully similar to the person he had once been at Cambridge, the person she had met, the person she had fallen in love with long before words had been apt and accurate to describe her feelings.

A glimpse into their past and one problem replacing the other: how to approach the subjects. Some things, she feared, would never change while other would inevitably pulling them in different directions at the same time. There she was in love with him and unable to tell him, old news re-framed by different circumstances.

She looked at him, blond curls falling over his forehead, feet tapping on the floor in time with the rhythm. Why on earth hadn't she told him yet? Partly one's lazy, partly one's shy - that's what the novels said. But that wasn't it, was it? She had urged herself to think about it more, in an ideal world she'd tell him over and over again. An archaic and formulaic construction of words, as old as time, how many before her had said such a thing? But this, or so it felt, was something that words did not even start to encompass: it was an unspoken agreement, a reality that had no need to be voiced, kept forever safe by silence. New, unsettling, reassuring. Their mutually agreed silence meant not being committed to any consequences. Their mutually agreed silence meant that nothing could spoil their feelings or take them away from them: not the lies and certainly not History. Surely he knew. Surely he felt it too.

Damage control, that was what she was doing: there would be no closure and no regrets, just another well kept secret. It would be their best kept one as much as Bletchley was being England's.

"One could say the same thing about you." Fitz paused, hands slapping his knees lightly as one does, in a rather peculiar manner, conveying the idea of having been too shy and polite to interrupt conversation and leave.

He stood up, standing beside her, his frame towering against the yellow flickering lights and then he added, "Since we're here... I know that you like to be asked properly. So, Jemma Simmons, can I have this dance?"

"Yes, why not."

A laugh escaped her throat, vibrant, unrestricted, and crystal clear, as she took his hand and smiled at him. Trembling fingers, on both sides. He held her firmly, his skin warm and soft on hers. To be held! She stepped closer. In his arms, safe and reassured - contra mundum. They could hold on to each other, softly and carefully, be at home in the other's embrace where noises and history could not reach them.

"You know, I thought you were avoiding me. Always running away at the first sight of me."

"Never that."

"Good."

"Excellent, I'd say," she replied, stepping closer.

Trembling fingers on both sides, no further than they had been before. Complete propriety. Shortness of breath and fear, complete, of this slipping away from them. Hesitance as Fitz slowly moved his hand around her waist, gently pulling her closer - his light grip growing in confidence with every second, seconds ticked away by the clock hanging on one of the walls, the black pointers moving relentlessly.

Her palm against his, touching, slightly sweaty. Bodies inches apart, breaths mixing and gaze meeting - the fresh spring air coming through the open windows, a soft breeze filling the room, carrying the smell of earth and rebirth. It was the smell of new beginnings mixing with that of the Hut, allowing for a breath of fresh air, air no longer heavy.

"You look dashing tonight. Splendid," she said, as the fabric of her dress brushed against her legs. The blue cotton printed with white dots moving at every movement, almost floating around her, up and down again, endless waves of movement.

"Thank you, You don't look too bad yourself." He smiled.

Memories coming up, half forgotten and long faded, details missing. A washed out picture that lacked definition, it was all reduced to sensations and perhaps wishful thinking. Her and Fitz, they had danced together plenty of times, though one had to admit that it had usually been quicker steps and the sound of the radio turned up and up, almost too loud for such a circumscribed space such as his room. A joke, they were equals and partners in everything, so linked that they had been almost effortlessly coordinated - feet moving in perfect sync. Fluent movements, but was it true that though the years there had always been a sense of yearning for more, more, more! Glances held too long and fingers lingering on skin, they never seemed capable of letting go.

"It's been a while since we've had a night like this, hasn't it?"

He nodded. "I'm surprised I still remember what to do. You know what? I've missed this. I've missed you."

"I'd have thought, since you were in London..."

"No time."

They closed their eyes, enjoying the other's proximity. Gentle movements, her hands moving around his neck as his moved around her waist - holding each other as if the most precious thing on earth. Exposed in their fragility, raw and vulnerable: Why let go? Why do anything other than this? It felt like the perfect state of being and yet there they stood, moving slowly, and behind them far away in the past, phantom versions of themselves: alone in a room, the afternoon sun shining through the window, filtered by curtains; A game of shadows; Ancient buildings watching over them and witnessing history, keeping their secret. It was continuity at its best.

"There's a similar tune from nineteen thirty." He paused, head getting closer. She could feel his breath against her ear. "Some show, probably. I'm quite certain my mother owns that record, I've got vivid memories of my parents listening to it. Still, I don't think anyone's listened to it in years."

"The only show I know is Zip Goes a Million or something like that anyway, it flopped. How was London?"

Fitz shrugged. "Business as usual. Rainy. Cold. Met some old friends, which was nice. You know, all this travelling made me think about life and how it's going to be once all of this is over."

"Different, that's for sure."

"Not bad different I hope."

"You can never tell with these things, that's the problem." She paused. "But such is life and there's nothing we can do about it."

"You make it sound rather dull and gloomy."

"Am I? I mean, history moves on and we shape our lives, but there's so much we don't know and will never know."

Because on one side History purported to explain everything that happened within a certain paradigm, but it was their lives that had to be consider! A smaller and infinite piece of a bigger picture in which chaos run free - there motives were obscure even to the protagonists of events. There were no rules beside consequentiality, it was unsettling to say the least.

"You know what their saying?" He asked.

"What? That women here get weak in their knees at the mere thought of the size of some people's brains?"

"What? No!" He laughed, genuinely entertained, head slightly tilted back. "They're saying that we're shortening the war. Speeding things up with our enhanced clerical work in this radio factory."

"Now you're just humouring me."

"So, how long until it's over?"

"I'm a mathematician, Fitz, not a clairvoyant." She paused. "Let's be positive and say three years. At the most."

"Goodness, that means we'll be ancient by then."

"Almost thirty isn't ancient, Fitz."

"Well, I beg to differ! Almost a decade since our first meeting."

She nodded. "We'll be completely different people by then. I'm a completely different person right now."

"And I! Sometimes I have a hard time recognizing myself."

Jemma stepped back, abruptly, stretching out her hand. "Jemma Anne Simmons."

He looked at her in bewilderment, his face painted with puzzlement. Mouth half opened in a surprised _oh._ Then her hand in his, a firm handshake. "Leopold James Fitz."

"Odd name."

"Don't, I've heard them all."

"Then I'm going to call you Fitz, let's keep it simple. Leopold." She paused, sticking her tongue out just slightly. "So, Leopold James Fitz, where are you from?"

"Dresden."

Honesty, unlimited and exposing, he was showing himself to be vulnerable. The syllables came out in rapid succession, no pause, no careful articulation; Barely distinguishable, mumbled and muttered, a definite urgency to get to the end of the word. In shame, perhaps, for these were the times but definitely held back for too long. It sounded liberating, it was making him free - more than half muttered sentences in German in times of absolute gravity, more than the sporadic Mutter and Vater. This was a part of him, hidden from sight, small and nagging at him - a part he was daily betraying and suppressing, pretending it didn't exist under his father's influence. Fitz showed himself to the world in halves, a carefully constructed story, but there it was, the other part and perhaps the most important one, in his name and in the way he had been raised: it could not be taken from him. She had never looked at it like that.

"I'm from Sheffield, but I live in London."

"London?"

"What?" She joked. "I love that city. St. Paul's cathedral, the National Gallery looking over Trafalgar Square. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else, really. You?"

"Cambridge. After that Glasgow, Burntisland... I don't know."

Impossible to make plans and stick to them, perhaps he was being wise. Not having any plans meant not being let down at the end of the process: he could adapt and see from there, she'd be stagnating in heartbreak and resentment, blaming the world.

But this was her life now: eight hours shifts that sometimes became sixteen hours long, recreational hours in Hut Two, smuggling Fitz out of her room first thing in the morning. There was boredom and the awareness of having power that would one day be taken from her - leaving nothing but dreams. She was being valued, she had freedom and courage to be bold and dare and society was changing but how deep were the roots of it and would they last once the war was over?

Part of her, she realized, resented Fitz for his securities. Even at Bletchley, had he been another person, had he been interested, he could have gotten into the high ranks of ULTRA - his father surely knew the right people. Women, on the other hand, were only part of the periphery.

"Sounds lovely."

"You should see for yourself."

"I'm afraid I could never live in some village, no matter whether it's a remote one or not," she told him. No, village life was not for her: she needed speed, modernity, for things never to stop and go on moving till exhaustion. Something to match her brain and her restlessness, making her feel both at home and at peace.

"Who said anything about living, visiting seems enough. You'd like it there."

"You mean during the weekends?"

"Why not? It's a perfectly affordable journey." He paused, getting serious. "But I was thinking... Late spring, I promised mother to come and visit. You could come with me."

"Like a holiday? I haven't had one in years."

"One more reason to come with me. Who knows, maybe you'll like it."

"I don't want to change my plans, Fitz," she said. Lest she'd end up with unspoken resentments. It didn't matter it was Fitz she was talking to, nor that he was her best friend in the whole world - one thing, she wanted one thing of the future she had imagined for herself. Moving north or to a village was not it. She needed a place where she could forget herself, though he was welcome to change his plans for her.

"No, it's not that. It'll be perfect. So, Jemma Simmons age twenty-seven, tell me more about yourself."

"I'm a mathematician."

"Impressive."

"I like numbers, they show you how things really are. You can get to the truth of things with just an equation and I, for one, think that's beautiful. What about you?"

"I'd like to write something one day." He admitted.

It came as a surprise.

"I would have thought politics."

Fitz shook his head. "No, too messy. I'd love... I'd love to be my own person one day, not Alistair Fitz's son."

"So you're related?"

"Unfortunately." He smiled sheepishly before going on. "I'd like to be a person that hasn't been shaped by threats."

There was no way of stopping him now and ask for questions and explanations, he was talking freely and pouring his heart out. The harsh reality hitting her at once, that they hardly knew each other at all - blame, perhaps, of their companionable near silence that bound them as much as it distanced them. Never in so many words had he spoken the truth and now her mind re-framing the years of their friendship starting from the very beginning. It was something that stretched through the years, an entire lifetime, adult life as well as childhood, it was difficult to keep up. Seeds planted in the past, consequences revealing themselves in the present.

This loathing, he looked disgusted as anger boiled inside of him - cold and detached as if it was someone else's life he was talking about. Words covered by music, vanishing in the air, they could not be taken back. This was a close resemblance to his father - no jokes, sharp consonants with each plosive marked with emphasis, each syllable neatly articulated, pauses calculated in their effect. This was Fitz, not holding back, exposed and filled with rage. It could happen to anyone.

"And if I could write something, anything, to make some people less alone... something hopeful... No boundaries and no censorship. Improving lives." He finished.

"You never said." She paused. It felt as if Fitz was revealing himself for the first time, exposed like never before. "You never told me... All these years and I never-"

"It's rather recent, I'm afraid. Lately I've had a lot of time to think about life." He lowered his voice. "I don't know myself, because everything I do is a cover-up!"

"What do you mean?"

She let him go, stepping back. They stared at each other, a silent dare for the other to look away first. The air was tense, it could be cut with a knife, and they were at their breaking points: things were slipping away and out of their control, faster and faster, it seemed impossible to catch up.

"It's all an act, don't you see?"

"What?"

She didn't. All she saw was Fitz, the Fitz she knew, the Fitz she loved. It didn't change anything but it was impossible to understand; Jemma didn't dare to speak.

People were still talking, a reality of which they were part of was slowly starting to settle in. Gossip. Laughter coming from one side of the room - high-pitched and distracting. The music was still playing, a fast rhythm: they had missed too much of it, but cared little about it. How did they appear from outside, to strangers?

"Sometimes it leads to desperation. To things you'd never do."

"Fitz, what have you done?" She asked.

Chaos was exploding, insecurity and panic taking control. It was the universe and the beginning of the evening as far in time as possible.

Far away, further down the path, away from the single storey room with a timber built structure, rectangular on plan and aligned north-south signals were being intercepted and transcribed.

Not in Morse, not encrypted. Urgent.

Not in Morse, not encrypted. Repeated all over again.

Bewilderment settling in. Then, panic. Phone calls, people running, under a sky studded with stars.

It could not reach them - everything inside Hut Two too loud for outside noise to be heard. They were safe, unreachable, it could go on forever.

The door opened, the sudden movement captured their attention - people moving to the sides.

They needed the best and the brightest for a matter of utter importance and emergency. Her shift being anticipated; Just like that their plans vanished as dread settled where before had been hope and happiness. Too many questions at once, Fitz looking as if on the verge of breaking apart - eyes filled with tears, he looked ready to write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. It could get nasty: on one side, the desire not to leave him alone; on the other, rage and the urge to shout that it was all his own stupid fault.

News were spreading fast, reaching them. No longer isolated and restricted to Hut Eight it were conquering the world little by little.

"What is it, Fitz? What have you done?" She asked again. It didn't make sense: her gut was telling her to be skeptical, her heart to trust him; There was an absence of logic that was leaving her disorientated and lost. But this was the truth, the very much needed confirmation: If secrets were going to tear them apart, pushing them in different directions at once with the time for truth never coming, one thing would remain untouched and unaltered and the more precious. Their love or her love for him.

The music reached its climax with a crescendo filled with power - a succession of fortes, probably - and then stopped along with the world. For a moment nothing, an entire universe reduced to a failed confrontation: no time and no openings, secrecy bounding and destroying them at the same time.

"I'm sorry, Jemma. I'm so, so sorry."


	11. Akelei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1943

 

Akelei. She had asked Fitz what it meant, her tone neutral, cold and detached.

The question had been on the tip of her tongue for days. Those same days that now felt like an eternity, a lifetime of unspoken words that had ultimately been too calculated in their utterance and inflection to sound casual and entirely unplanned. Ludicrous now to think about the paralyzing fear that had at the time accompanied them: Feelings and words had coexisted for so long, that thinking about either of them separate from the other appeared like an impossible task. United until the end of time itself.

Her heart beating faster and immediate regret, the latter had set in seconds after the last syllable had left her mouth. To be able to take them back and say something else instead - the situation might have called for a love declaration or something that would finally settle doubts and arguments. A well knows situation becoming true at last rather than having something that could bring them ruin as much as peace.

One certainty or doubt depending on one's view of the situation: Fitz could answer with a lie or give away uncomfortable realities that would have only confirmed her doubts. Crippling paranoia: there had been too much at stake, everything at risk; But then, at last, Fitz's voice as passive and neutral as her own, his face expressionless.

Overwhelming relief had washed over her as their conversation had moved on to the next topic with the same linearity and effortlessness as before. In hindsight, it felt as if they had stepped over a chasm for the first time since his arrival at Bletchley, the space between them reduced at last. The worst, if felt, was now behind them.

No arguments had been triggered.

They had been and still were on the winning side.

Akelei. Her question had been casual, a coincidence and therefore did not matter.

It was a word she had heard somewhere, when and where she could not recall, a word she did not know the meaning of. Why bother looking it up on a dictionary when she could just as easily ask him? He was, after all, making himself useful, putting his own Cambridge education at use for the greater good - not the war effort, but her own curiosity.

A series of jokes had followed between one kiss and the next, her lips pressed on his, and then laughter. Liberating. Clear. Genuine. That had been it, the much needed proof that things between them were still working and had not changed: Leopold Fitz and Jemma Simmons with their bickering and their playful banter. In that moment, with the two of them facing each other, with scars as well as longings, it had felt as if it would always be like that. As if nothing else could be but such bliss and effortlessness.

It was something worth fighting for, something worth protecting. A force to be reckoned with. 

Akelei. Fitz had corrected her pronunciation after a brief enquiry on the word's spelling - German, by the sound of it.

Their moment together, with the afternoon light flooding the room, on the edge of intimacy, lost and quickly replaced by a short and humours lecture on German diphthongs. Examples had been provided, examples that had set them back to their safe distant - impossible to imagine that they had been seconds away from lying down on the bed; the door locked, a trail of ungallantly dismissed clothes soon to be left on the floor.

Mistakes or not the word had sounded different in his mouth. Still foreign but more natural, less forced. Another piece of information bound to be forgotten. He had looked at ease using his mother tongue - free and safe from a world in which anti German sentiment was growing with each day that passed, his regional accent giving him away.

She had lied to him, it did not matter. Things were moving on and quickly so, it had been just like discussing the weather forecast. Nothing behind it. A mere interruption, circumstantial words that distanced them as much as it bound them. Normality under such exceptional circumstances.

A hint of what their future could be.

They'd never make it to bed or to the closet where the box of French letters was lying untouched and unopened.

Akelei. The German words for columbine or granny's bonnet, from the Latin aquilegia meaning eagle; Perennial plants that could be found in meadows and woodlands, with spurred petals that looked like sets of doves.

It was a word that filled your mouth. A simple word. An innocent word. A word that had triggered chaos and had consequentially left destruction in its wake. It was word that had caused a cataclysm of gigantic proportions, leading people to despair.

For the Germans it meant change the Wetterkurzschlüssel at midnight.

For Bletchley it meant trouble.

They had lost all access to naval communications on the Atlantic. Since then time had stretched out and had become dreamlike, surreal. Even now, it felt like moving in a quagmire - one day the same as the next, characterized by lack of success and frustration. The convoys were all they could think about, but another memory more vivid and important always present in Jemma's mind: her and Fitz dancing together, their argument or lack thereof.

To go or to speak, their unspoken challenge had not been respected and here they were, nine days later, on the eve of what was bound to become the final breakthrough, walking side by side: together and in silence. Both of them on the losing side, no matter how hard they tried to pretend. But it seemed irrelevant and unimportant, they had no strength for confrontation, too caught up in history, always more important matters standing in their ways. What did it matter? She had her secrets and Fitz had his, to pay attention and give in to the general sense of paranoia would certainly mean a rapid and inevitable downfall.

Accusations were not to be voiced: There was no time for hypocrisy.

"To think that by now we could have been in Glasgow," said Fitz, looking at her and taking her hand. A gentle squeeze before his fingers laced with Jemma's. Then, he went on. "Walking up Argyle Street."

"Or on the train, the English countryside passing in front of us." Jemma paused. "A sunny day just like today. The smell of dry earth nothing but a distant memory. Not to mention the absence of that horrid and everlasting smell of mold, damp clothes, cigarettes and spoiled institutional food."

"Oh come on, it's not half as bad as you make it sound."

"That's because I've been here longer than you."

"I see."

"It's those couple of months that make all the difference."

"I'm sure." He paused. "I say, how come that you're always the one that is more everything? This reminds me terribly about your constant bragging about being the smartest. Oh Fitz, I'm clearly the smartest one. Yeah, sure, that's because you used to like homework more than life itself."

Jemma snorted, a guttural sound stuck at the back of her throat that ultimately came out of her nose in a sharp and egressive flow of air. Loud. It prickled which caused her to grimace, an expression that made Fitz laugh in amusement even louder.

"Hysterical, really," she said. "Forget about writing and politics, you should get into comedy. You're clearly a natural."

But he was right, though she would never admit it to him, it wasn't half as bad as she made it sound. Part of it, Jemma was sure, was because Fitz was there.

Darling, dearest, Fitz making life bearable.

And spring! The first warm days in months, they had to enjoy and make the most of them for April was just around the corner bringing rain, or shoures sote as the poet said, and then what? Petrichor, raindrops lingering on blooming blossoms and grass. Light reflecting on puddles making the air brighter and luminous, softening the edges of reality in a mesmerizing and peculiar way that had something fascinating about it. And mud, no doubt the world would appear to be made out of it.

Spring, granting rebirth and hope. One way or the other it would all be over and then what? Rest. Sleep. Live. Live!

"You know, I think it's quite funny how all of our plans seem destined to vanish. They stand a chance to become reality, don't they?"

"Hmm. Not really our fault, is it though? I'd say it's damage control and one has to admit that we're close to a groundbreaking change which is all I'm going to say about the matter." She joked.

Overstepping boundaries. This far and no further. She hoped Fitz would not make enquiries for what was there to add without breaking her secrecy agreement? Nothing. Maybe they weren't the only ones, maybe Fitz knew too that they had lost all access to German naval communications, but she could not talk about it or bring herself to ask him about him. It was for their own good and protection, clear boundaries between private and public life, history could not interfere with them as long as it had nothing to do with them. Safe distance between her and Fitz and the rest of the world.

What was there to say? That she was living on tea and Benzedrine working way too many shifts? One heard stories of course, about the constant supplies of Benzedrine being given to combat troops to use in exceptional circumstances - keep escort ship officers awake and alert in continuous pursuit of submarines for twenty four hours or more, to keep paratroopers stay fighting for longer; But the stimulant was handed to Bletchley employers just as much: who cared if they were to crash in the morning, by then they'd either have a solution to their current problem or sleep. Either way it did not matter.

What else? That the air in Hut Eight was becoming unbearable. Stress was catching up, fights started because of the smallest of issues.

There was no place for work talk. It had to be left at the doorstep to prevent a complete monopolization of their free time. Nothing to worry about.

"Mind if I smoke?" She asked.

"No, just...  don't kiss me afterwards. It always feels like snogging an ashtray."

Jemma rolled herself a cigarette with careful and precise movements, mathematical precision in the smallest of gestures. Then the matches, effortless and fluid movement as she lit one - the blue point rubbing against the paper. Once, twice and then the flame appearing with a crackling sound.

A smile crept up her face, soon transforming into a grin as she carelessly dropped some ash. "How much time have we got?"

Fitz looked at his watch. "Plenty. Not enough."

"Never that, eh?"

Sometimes it felt as if their relationship was made entirely out of memories. At work she thought of Fitz still asleep, lying on his bed, one arm covering his eyes and the other resting on his stomach, slightly snoring, his trousers off and in his underwear, blood curls on the blue bed linen. He filled her mind, an illusion of having more time as if it were not running away from them,

A long time ago, or so it felt for time now appeared as shapeless and indistinct, memories overlapping - sorted out according to importance and not chronologically - he had asked her to stay just as she was getting up. In the sorry hours and days she had often wished to be able to go back and re-enter the moment: under the covers, lying beside him, arms around each other - certainly not the most comfortable of positions. They would have kissed, fumbling and wondering hands, he had been ready to lift her pyjama shirt.

Oh to be able to go back and burrow herself next to him. To start from where they had left off. Uninterrupted by history, her landlady's voice not calling her as her heavy steps on the stairs that creaked under everyone's weight got closer. She had gotten out of the room under Fitz's pleading and entertained look. At the time and even now, a week later, it made her feel dizzy: that sense of familiarity and the sudden and careful realisation that they could have this for the rest of their lives if only either of them could find the courage and the strength to speak up and ask about it.

Waking up beside him, now and forever. An idyllic picture. A most wanted one. They could have their own life, their own space and their relationship would no longer be reduced to careful rendezvous in either of their bedrooms. A world with no war. Lazy mornings before leaving for work. Sundays all for themselves, late breakfast, they could eat in their pyjamas if they wanted to. The buzzing of the city would keep them company.

She could ask him to stay and make her life bearable.

She could tell him, in honesty, that she'd follow him to a remote village if that was what he wanted.

He could follow her to London because why give up on her dreams when all he cared for was becoming a writer and help people?

It didn't matter. It would not matter as long as they had each other. They would and could negotiate agreements and terms, pour their heart out and find a series of compromises that would suit them both just fine. It would, without a doubt, ease them into change and into the real world from which she felt alienated: Bletchley had rules and schedules, secrecy was a must; she didn't not have the means to do things differently, the past was already looking like a foreign country - things had been done differently. But what did it matter when there would be all the time in the world to leap, to explore their relationship, to live!

"One could start to think that we're cursed." Fitz admitted. The words sounded stupid long before they had come out of his mouth in their entirety. "The cosmos plotting against us."

"Nonsense. Here we are always believing in something, though I'm sure the cosmos doesn't want anything."

"You're the one who said it first."

"Don't-"

"Not in so many words, perhaps, but I do remember you saying, well, it certainly does make one believe in something." He mocked her, his voice high pitched in his failed imitation attempt.

"That's not even how I sound!"

"No, I suppose you're right."

"Suppose?" She nudged him with her elbow and he stepped to the side, laughing.

This, the much needed reminder that there was another side of them that had yet to disappear. Careless and free. To joke, to be able to joke and laugh around, was an everlasting relief: they could be like this, effortlessly. They still had this. At times it felt like it was gone forever, leaving them dismayed: it had always been there, familiar in every detail; But it was something that existed, something that was worth fighting for - a private battle as important as history itself.

"Oh my dear."

"I've got the midnight shift. I'm afraid I won't be around for a couple of days, something big is happening."

"We can agree on that, I suppose."

Unethical decisions she did not have an opinion on - too tired to think, too tired to worry. They'd sacrifice some convoys and gain their access o Shark, the convoys were under the U-Boats' radars anyway, so why not turn the situation into their advantage? They'd reconstruct the settings using the Kurzsignalheft, something that was like looking for a needle in a haystack. But they would shorten the war and work nonstop, powered by coffee and Benzedrine, and their desire to do something.

The world filled with quiet and Hut Eight busy working, the telephone ringing giving them the convoys coordinates. No way of knowing the outcome, but there was always hope. That had to mean something.

"Fitz, I was thinking... will you come back to the cottage with me?"

If this was the end, there was nothing she wanted to do more than spend time with Fitz. Nothing to worry about, no other thoughts but them, them, them! A retreat of sorts, they could do whatever they wanted and it would last long enough to take both their minds off things. Important, she felt like she was using him lest she'd get crazy.

He smiled sadly. "As much as it sounds appealing, I've got a train to catch. As you said, matter of extreme urgency. I've got to be in London at six sharp."

"Oh."

"And I'm not saying this because I don't want to go back with you or because... I know we always get interrupted, but- I do want to have sex with you Jemma. I don't believe for a moment that it will complicate things or that our relationship will start to change exponentially."

"God, no." She laughed. "If there's anything that is causing exponential change, then it's-"

"Everything but sex."

"Right."

"I've been thinking about us a lot lately, and I want to do everything with you. Textbook things, though one could argue we're not the sort of people that do not do them. But I've got to go to London: it can't be delayed or rescheduled and for that I'm sorry."

She placed her hand on his cheek, her thumb caressing his skin. "Don't be."

Their heads close, foreheads touching and breaths mixing. His eyes on her lips and back up.

"Fitz, may I ask you something?"

"Go on then."

"Were you serious when you told me about visiting your mother?"

He nodded. "Of course. Why?"

"You'll never take me to Glasgow."

It all went back to that, or so it felt. In Jemma's mind it had started to appear dreamlike, a place away from everything and everyone, where they could just be. Idyllic, a dream, a trial. It was like saying a cottage in Perthshire, no neighbours for miles - paradise, though she'd get bored eventually. It could be their safe space, a distraction, away from there problems. Nothing could reach them there, they both knew it. After all hadn't been his proposition a distraction from a much bigger issue?

"But I will. I will" He paused. "And that's a promise."

The possibility of a future together one step closer to intimacy, the place would grant it to them.

"Good."

"Excellent, I'd say."

No retreat and no surrender. Their future: Safe.


	12. First Love, Last Rites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

1943

 

Darkness, it seemed, had become the universe.

Night. A moonless sky, pitch black and clouded. A storm about to break out in all its intensity and violence, motion and dynamicity at their best. Nature in all its power. Thick, grey clouds had gathered in the early evening, distant thunder rolling and rumbling, and the occasional lighting - distant, they had started to get closer and were now loud, mixing with the gust of wind blowing between the Huts and on the fields. Grass bending at its passage. Branches of trees, rasping and rattling, breaking off and falling on to the ground.

They had all missed the storm's arrival.

Too absorbed in their work to notice, the entire world had been reduced to Hut Eight with its red telephone constantly ringing and the clock on the wall that ticked seconds, minutes, and hours away. They had looked at it constantly, each glance met with the reassurance that it was still night on the Atlantic. Then the sun had risen and at half past seven the telephone had started to ring: the first U-boat travelling 49.4° North and 38.8° East, Grid Square BD 1491, course 070.

In the following two hours chaos had exploded each order of attack met with anxiety and an overall lack of understanding of how things worked. Someone had snapped with the admiral, everyone else had held their breaths - for seconds no one had dared to speak. The day passed looking at the messages and swiftly going through the Code Book, reconstructing possible grips. At ten the first torpedo had hit, thirty minutes later they were finally though it. An entire day of her life lost, spent in a badly smelling Hut skipping meals and taking Benzedrine, unaware of the real world.  

Night. An entire day of her life had passed, all time she'd never get back.

Now, rain: Hard, hitting against every surface - droplets of water running down walls and windows alike, gathering in puddles, filtering through the earth. Harsh, constant, cold - it was raining cats and dogs, it was raining like there would be no tomorrow.

The world looked different from how she had left it, from she remembered it to be: shapes outlined by strikes of lighting - white light flooding the darkness - blurred by water and darkness, and filtered through lenses of success and exhaustion.

They had made it, everything was possible.

They had made it, they had proven once again that they were better than machines.

Hope triggering elation: The future looked brighter, neater, possible. Victory was theirs and would always be, a night to firmly believe that they could end this war and reduce its duration; Come out on the winning side.

The world, it felt, was theirs.

The world, it felt, was at their feet.

She could made history. She could do anything she was asked and more, validation sweet and intoxicating. It was night when all looked possible, easy, affordable and accessible. A night with no consequences: words could be spoken without fear or shame. Futures could be made, shaped, decided.

Mud was clinging to her shoes and trousers. It would only get worse on the way home, though the country road, and would never dry in time: the prospect of having to remove it - a nightmare. It was bound to spread wider, deeper, brown stains on her dark tweed - too late now, but she shouldn't have worn her best piece of clothing. And yet, part of her, unaware of the meteorological changes had perhaps naively tried to impress Fitz: They could have gone back to the cottage together, they could have seen from there. What a complete change of situation, subverted and altered - they'd never get it back as they had lived it the previous afternoon.

Jemma smiled, stepping into a puddle - water entering her shoes from above and socks quickly getting drenched; An uncomfortable feeling of wet cloth and water adding up, drenching her feet as her vision got the more impaired.

Darkness and rain, an asleep city with no lights. People dreaming, unconscious, unaware of their war effort and their success. Miles away battlefields and pain, but here and now a final breakthrough and life going on as usual. Such was life.

Slow steps, feet dragged on the ground, pebbles shifting under her. Up the street and around the corner, the cottage wasn't too far away now. Her ears were ringing and she was on the edge, her senses enhanced by and made sharper by the Benzedrine. All was sharp, too quiet, and herself walking - in constant turmoil, forever out of place. Was this how the rest of her life would feel like? Trapped in a society and a place that were not keeping up with her? And what to do with such an awareness: Real life, normal life, a life outside Bletchley too far away and hard to imagine. She didn't want it. Then a thought: what if Fitz was to be there, making it all bearable? At the speed they were moving, such a moment was bound to never arrive.

A solitary figure, ominous if one believed in such things - a ghost standing under a streetlamp, illuminated by yellow, dim light with desolation and barren land, destruction on earth around them. Not alone anymore. There was something familiar even from afar - the frame, the posture, features blurred and too far away, badly delineated in the semi darkness. But a memory, the reversal of a situation, of roles, with surprise untouched and unaltered: the enigma of an arrival, early night instead late afternoon.

Strange to see him there. She blinked twice. Exhaustion was settling, the effects of the Benzedrine slowly fading: victory did not matter anymore, now that she was home or the closest thing she had to a home, a sudden awareness that she hadn't slept in days.

"I say." She stopped, speeding up - longer stride, walking with a sense of purpose that had only just had the better on her. The world was shrinking down to her and Fitz, the unexpected visit, and the torrential rain that covered every noise - their umbrellas were parting the water, barely resisting under the pressure of such a force. "Fitz, is that you?"

Disappointment making its way inside her, against her will: Fitz was coming between her and rest and she needed the latter more than the former - lest she'd break down. Selfish, but what did it matter and who's business was it anyway? Let her be so! She had earned it, they had missed their chance, it could all way - time suspended so as to grant her a chance to recuperate and brief, lay back, relax, her mind - empty. Perhaps this was the first step of her deepest fear, an imminent breakdown triggered by her inability to keep up with the Bletchley lifestyle: not the first one, not the last one; Weeks before someone had fallen off their bike and had been sent back to Cambridge to get better. They'd send her packing, blaming it on the fact that she was a woman: in her list of self-set rules tiredness was not allowed, nor was it allowed to stop thinking too much about what was going on. Back to Cambridge and then, inevitably, back to her parents as if a set of spoiled goods.

Disappointment, hers, mostly. Normal life was too far away but that feeling of accomplishment and that peculiar sense of purpose that she had acquired years before as she had sat restricted and composed in an office were still there - part of her daily life and as familiar as ever. She was connected through them to a phantom version of herself - naive, younger, with so much spirit and desire for adventure to appear foreign; Who was in control? She was. She was! They needed her more than she needed them, an ecstatic thought, really: she would not or could not show herself to be vulnerable.

"Jemma-" His voice broke down and then a second inspection of his features - distorted in a grimace of pain. Tears. Trembling lips. Details registered slowly, one after the other. Details confusing her. He fidgeted with his hands, he spoke but his words got lost and failed to reach her: whether out of distraction or because of the inaudibility of his syllables she couldn't tell. Distress, it felt, had those feature if she was to look it up somewhere.

"I didn't know you had come back," she said plainly, her words sounded empty of meaning even as she pronounced them.

"I caught the last train. I-"

"I was at work."

"Yes. Yes, I know."

"A matter of extreme urgency."

"I know," he whispered.

Fitz looked at her and they stared each other out, refusing to look away, refusing to speak. She could picture it clearly: his eyes crystal clear, bluer now that he was crying, red and puffy; Even in the semi darkness, she had seen him crying once - an occasion never to be talked about. But this was different and she lacked instincts: to go too him, reach him, meant throwing the situation off balance: anything could happen after it, including unwanted truths to come up. If that was the case, she wanted to scream, let him keep them to himself. To stay and fake indifference and ignorance was just as bad: had he really told her that he knew about the emergency. How much and what exactly, she wanted to ask, did he know? He had not even been there.

Fear, her heart beating faster, and tenderness, friendship, love. Panic.

An argument had to be avoided along with inquisitive questions and accusations - voices rising and getting louder, they'd end up waking the entire house and give themselves away. One day, not tonight. They had to remain on the same side for as long as humanly possible, time was too precious to be wasted on playing a well familiar game of assumptions: They would not put words in each other's mouths.

He had come to her for comfort, probably; His eldest friend if one excluded Hunter. But could she give it to him? Her presence would do, mere physicality as a chasm stood between them. Curiosity mixed with sleep deprivation mixed with longing: emotions were overwhelming her and she felt like she could explode. A scream forming at the back of her throat, threatening to come out, for enough was enough and she could not do this any longer: How did he dare to break the precarious equilibrium, coming there with his secrets and completely unannounced? That had been her first thought, but now another: she should be ashamed of herself; There she was jealous of Hunter, silently throwing accusations at him when she had plenty of secrets of her own.

All Jemma could think about was taking his hand, step forward and wipe his tears away, whisper words of comfort and embrace him. They could stand there for as long as it took for Fitz to calm down: They had each other, he could fall apart and recompose himself without having to face any judgement. She didn't. They hadn't.

She was someone he could trust and rely on, they could tell each other the truth. But they couldn't, could they? They could be court-martialled, she thought as she stopped. They couldn't not just stand there, if it were Cambridge, they - But it wasn't. It wasn't. It wasn't! And wasn't that the whole point, the one thing that they could not escape and always landed back upon?

Paranoia was contagious and catching up.

"I didn't know what to do and I thought. I thought that-"

"Fitz, it's alright."

 He shook his head, insistently. Jemma stepped closer, umbrella's clashing - leaving them exposed for a moment, raindrops caught in their hair. Half a smile, fake entertainment or relieve at seeing her there, closer, next to him, and at the idea that such careless accidents could still happen. His expression made her heart ache, lips pressed together, wondering gaze, fidgeting hands as much as the umbrella allowed - there was no doubts: he was barely holding it together.

Sharp breaths. He flinched when she took his hand - a fraction of a moment to retrieve his hand, out of her reach. She pulled back, back into safe territory and safe distance, back to the beginning. It seemed like there would be no way out of it: Physical comfort had deserted them, leaving them puzzled as well as dismayed. The only thing that remained them - gone. Far away, in another universe, some version of them had to be living the best of life but here and now it was wearing them down.

"Do come in," she said. "No need to stand there all night."

Fitz nodded.

"Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

"I just." He paused, looking lost. "Perhaps it's better if I go home.

A part of her wanted to scream at him that he could not have it both ways: come and then refuse her company, it had been his decision to begin with. An interesting impulse that had a sense of freedom to itself, she'd make herself distinct and be free - on the verge of self-destruction. Ultimately she said, "Nonsense. I won't let you. I won't"

The state of him. Who was there to tell her that he would not go and do something stupid? She knew Fitz, at times it felt she knew him better than she knew herself, he could be impulsive and hot headed in his sorrow: there was more than just throwing a tantrum out of rage. Together, out of sight, hopefully it would be better in the morning: here and now they were together, no turning points. He had made her an involuntary and reluctant participant in his problems and loss - from afar, yet too near to fake ignorance; It had become personal.

"Come on then."

They left, walking in silence. Side by side, neither dared to breathe a word. Fitz's breath was shaky, lonely tears rolling down his cheek, writing sorrow on the bosom of the earth as they fell down. What to do now when reassuring and comforting touches were impossible and not enough? A chasm opening up between them, made wider by ignorance of the other's sadness and experiences. I'm sorry-s were empty of meaning, circumstantial words with no effect, there was no space for apologies and compassion under the form of words: They were slowly reaching the limits.

Jemma opened the door, Fitz standing behind her watching her every movement with attentiveness. Her hands were shaking, the key scratching against the keyhole - hard enough for the indentures to leave a faint trace on the wood: they would still be there in the morning, the only evidence of her fear and the nagging panic that was consuming her and quickly so. She knew nothing, what on earth was she doing? Siding with Fitz, she would do that again and again, until the end of days if necessary. Friendship and love at the roots of her decision, she wasn't clearheaded nor objective:  Trust, she realized, was starting to miss and there was a sense of obligation that she could not dismiss.

"So, would you like a cup of tea or-"

"I'd like to sleep on it. My mother always said that... a night of good sleep can solve any problem."

"We can do that, Fitz." She paused. "We can do anything you want."

They went upstairs, quietly, light steps on the old and wooden stairs: Their hands on the handrail, Fitz walking in front of her - a well known road. Past the bedrooms, like thieves in the night, strangers in their own home: for one she was glad that the house was empty, no one seeing them on their way upstairs. Too many questions, there was something secretive and illicit to the whole situation that went beyond male company upstairs. Too late, there would have been no way out from questions.

Her room appeared strange and familiar at the same time, Jemma felt like a complete different person - there was something childish about her lodgings that no longer belonged to her, a stranger in her own life. She said, "I think I still have one of your jumpers, you can wear that if you want."

"Thank you." He paused. "For everything."

Half of his sentence was covered by thunder, seconds later white light flooded the room - a world in black and white, with her and Fitz standing apart from each other and turned around, changing into their night clothes. Rain hitting against the window blinds and wind howling, louder than it had been half an hour earlier: The storm was adding up in its intensity. In the morning fresh air and a clear blue sky, vivid and intense colours, the only evidence of such violent meteorological conditions the puddles in the street and the lingering raindrops.

"Your feet are cold," Jemma said, as she made herself comfortable. Tangled limbs, her arms around him and her chin resting on his shoulder - her breath ticklish on his neck.

"Wir hatten Angst vor diesem Krieg. Und dann zog man uns ein.  Wir hatten Angst. Und hofften gar, es spräche einer Halt! " He paused. "Erich Kästner."

"Fitz," she whispered and stopped, her sentence getting lost.

There was nothing that could be said. Alien words, foreign words, she was bound to forget them in the morning - her brain too exhausted to properly register and remember them. They belonged to Fitz and only to him, just like his sorrow: Unimaginable and unexplainable, so much that it had to be explained and summarized in a language she was not familiar with. She had no say in it, nor did she play any part - an external witness frozen in her inability to do something helpful.

"Three people died today." His voice broke at the end of the sentence, coming out in a sob, making it somehow timeless. "It was unexpected. No, not that. We... I... We should have probably seen it coming. It wasn't such a remote possibility, there were risks and. Oh God."

"Who?"

"I feel so stupid! Too optimistic, too naive, a dreamer. Turns out father was right the whole damn time."

"Don't say that, you know it's not true."

"Just once. I-"

"Who died, Fitz?"

"It's not about Bletchley."

It meant nothing, she wanted to scream, there was an entire world outside Bletchley, far away from Buckinghamshire that was still connected to them. They broke codes, people died, one only had to think about the sacrificed convoys and how many had died before Enigma, before Shark, in the last ten days?

"What have you done, Fitz? What have you done!"

"London."

"London?"

"Jemma?"

"What?"

"I don't know if I can go on like this. It's always there, the more I try not to think about it... It comes back in flashes."

Raw, exposed, vulnerable. There was nothing to be done.

She had heard no news coming from London. One always heard rumours, at Bletchley they seemed to spread like wildfire.

"Not... London."

A simple sentence throwing her off balance and into the void. She was tired of work, of secrets and of Fitz with his high almighty attitude, he really ought to belong to a museum. Not talking about work was one thing, acceptable as difficult as it were, refusing to open up another: He could trust her, couldn't he?

Trust required a clarity of judgment and a clarity of purpose. He wouldn't or couldn't grant it, the both of them on the losing side. Slipping away, away, and even further it felt as if she was now watching the two of them from above: lying in each other's arms, curled up in bed, isolated in their own incommunicable sorrows. A chasm between them only getting wider and deeper, that was leaving them helpless as much as dismayed: They could and would not be able to overcome it - self-imposed secrecy standing in the way. They were the only ones to blame.

"Fitz, Fitz, Fitz!" she wanted to call. But he was alone.

"Jemma?"

"What happened..."

"I don't want to tell you. I can't."

"Not that. What happened... It isn't your fault. You know, when tragedy strikes, we try to find someone to blame. But you're not to blame. I'm sure you're not!"

The sentiment was real. Affection, care, her desire to lift some weight from his shoulders were too; dishonest and not helpful, but an attempt that somehow had to mean something. Not all was lost, surely. But the words! The words were circumstantial and empty, she didn't believe in them either and would not blame him for doing the same. There was always someone to blame, whether it was him or someone else did not matter. Actions and reactions, consequences: An infinite cycle. Like a snake biting it's own tail: Infinite.

Pointing fingers and throwing around accusation, that was easy. And no doubt they would one day end up like that, witnessing it firsthand. He wasn't to blame, because she didn't know about what happened and therefore missed the details but perception was a delicate and tricky matter that had the power to change situations in their entirety: One's needs always shaped one's understanding, and one's shape of mind had the power to change the frame of perception entirely. There was no way to deny that.

A void engulfing them, lulling them into a safe sense of security. It was all a farce and this was as close as they could get which was the same as saying not close at all: He knew everything and she knew nothing, too much self-awareness and an insurmountable gab. All he had was facts. All she had were suggestions, rejections, an her constant feeling of paranoia fuelled by her tiredness and exhaustion - her imagination was running wild. On the edge, waiting for him to open up: the moment would never come. He didn't want to, he had said so himself. Secrecy was safe, secrecy no doubt provided him from feeling as if he was falling into a very much feared loop; What escaped him, was the fact that he was starting to create a loop of his own - surely she wasn't the only one to feel it.

"Fitz," She whispered, her voice shaky and uncertain. Honesty, it felt, required a leap: a terrifying thought so late at night. "I'm tired. I don't- I don't want to lose you, this, us."

Silence and no answer. Then, Fitz's soft snores.

Jemma kissed his shoulder lightly, lingering, and turned around - on her back, staring at the ceiling. For a moment she toyed with the idea of staying there, waiting for oblivion to come for her, engulf her, granting her the much wanted and earned rest. Instead, she got up, trying not to wake him - he looked at peace at last, a shame to somehow wake him up. Loneliness important for both of them, she grabbed her dressing gown that had once been Fitz's dressing gown, and made her way out of the room, into the corridor, down the stairs and to the kitchen.

The knot in her throat got tighter and tighter as she brewed herself a cup of tea and sat down. And then a sob - loud, almost echoing in the empty room, her whole body shaking, a sharp pain in her chest. The clock in the living room struck midnight, sounds separated by a fraction of a second: this was the beginning of a new day. The beginning of a new day marked by unstoppable tears that refused to be blinked away. Tears that prickled in her eyes before rolling down her cheeks - a watery world with no real edges.

Away from everyone and everything, alone in a kitchen, with the rest of the world asleep, oblivion did come. Not as dreamless sleep like she had wanted and imagined it, but as of crumbling self-control and courage that at once were exposing all her vulnerability. Above all, it came with a much wanted feeling of numbness and indifference that settled as soon as there were no more tears left to cry.


	13. Tamquam Alter Idem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1943

 

In her dreams they were at Cambridge, long before the beginning of their friendship. Those awkward and uncertain days filled with indecisiveness and hesitation, it was all about seeing each other from afar, from across the street, and saying hello with polite nods of acknowledgement and half raised hands, while something inside them - curiosity, eagerness, longing - screamed at them: more! Shyness had painted all of their actions. Never such innocence again, never before or since.

In those days Fitz had had the sweetest of smiles and she had thought him to be the splendidest. Now, it all seemed absurd; They had fallen off their pedestal and found themselves as profoundly human as the next one, bound to make mistakes. Those two people at Cambridge were strangers not because they did not talk to each other and were oblivious of the future, but because it was hard to recognize herself in such a version of herself so distant in time. And yet, that Fitz, whom she had loved from the very beginning, no matter how small and infinitesimal that part of her had been, with his soft smile and his hope, his desire to always do the right thing that sometimes made him appear obsolete, was still shining through the cracks of Fitz now.

That was the Fitz she liked.

That was the Fitz she loved.

In her dreams they were given the chance to do everything right, they allowed themselves to do everything right. Cambridge at first and then moving through the years, a prison made of maybes and dreams vividly coming alive. Everyone was lying those days, a fashion that had long become common, but they didn't: wiser and careful versions of themselves living the best life - with no fear and no regrets.

There it was no longer a question about whether or not they trusted each other enough to let the truth come out unrestricted, the constant flow of words hard to stop, it was a question of boldness and courage they both had that allowed them to live such an appealing scenario.

In her dreams they had a chance to do things differently, fixing mistakes without letting them blow up and become ginormous, impossible to ignore. And they did things right, those dreamlike and idealized versions of them, making it all look incredibly easy: questions were voiced, doubts did not accumulate inside their minds; It was certainty without boundaries and a linear, easy and effortless relationship.

Then a voice, distant, far away, calling her name. Out of a pleasing and foreign reality into the nightmarish real one from which she could not escape. Her name again, Fitz's Scottish accent not as strong as people always declared it to be and that peculiar inflection of her own name that made it sound different coming from him.

Jemma opened her eyes, blinking a couple of times as the living room came into focus, the metallic taste of sleep still filling her mouth as reality started to settle in: Fitz kneeling in front of the sofa, looking at her, blond curls falling over his forehead; He looked older, aged, and incredibly young at the same time - worn down from life, exhausted. But weren't they all?

"Jemma, hey," he said, stretching out his hand and placing it on her shoulder.

She stretched herself, a soft noise of complaint leaving her mouth, and the whole sofa moved under her weight. "What time is it?"

"Half past six, ish." He smiled.

Memories fogged her brain: the previous night could have just as easily been a nightmare.

His hand moving from her shoulder to her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin with care and gentleness - a warm and reassuring touch, skin resting on skin. She took his hand in hers, the temptation to tell him to lie beside her infinite: an all but irresistible impulse.

They couldn't, someone could barge into the room and see them there, but oh to ask him to join her!

They couldn't, this was a dangerous game they were playing: burying their problems and bottling up their feelings. It was like not having feelings at all. A new basis of their emotional existence: complete taciturnity - they did not talk about their emotions, perhaps they did not even acknowledge them.

"Has the rain stopped?"

"Not yet. Why? Do you want me to leave?"

Yes, she wanted to tell him with all the conviction she could master. Instead she heard herself say,  "No. No, I was merely asking."

"Why are you sleeping on the sofa?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"Don't tell me I was snoring."

"A little bit, actually. But that's hardly why I left."

A laugh seemed called for, they managed it. A guttural sound stuck in their throat, they did not smile. This wasn't working at all. Panic! And cold.

"How long have you been here?"

"Quite some time, I think." The last couple of syllables got lost in a loud yawn.

"Doesn't look that comfortable."

"It really isn't, trust me."

"You could have said something."

She shook her head. "It's work... All of this. I actually made myself some tea first and then didn't feel like waking you up, you looked as if you could do with a good night's sleep. I think it was one o'clock in the morning? Maybe two? I don't know, Fitz. I honestly do not know."

Numbness. How to explain that she had had no strength to go back to him? Late at night, with the whole world asleep, she had thought about it and could see herself doing so: up the wooden stairs and down the corridor, into her room; crawling back under the covers and move her body close to his, clinging to him in her doubts and sorrows. Their relationship the only solid thing, untouchable, they could work on it and fix it before it all crumbled under the weight of their silences and their mistakes. But the action would have required clarity of judgment and an overall sense of certainty which were not hers and had long abandoned her. Instead, the distance had appeared immense and insurmountable, there had been no way in the sorry minutes and hours to go back to him.

Impossible. The whole ordeal bore a sense of estrangement from her past routine, not that she would tell him any time soon; Her feelings too unsettling - the ground under her feet disappearing, a free fall, with no means to reach out and ask for help. It was her fault, she could not really forgive him and let it all go, starting anew, and she was in the right - of that she was sure. Cold and righteous silence, she looked at him elated by a mawkish sense of being wholesomely and tragically in the right. And yet love and friendship were still there, she could feel them as alive as ever, that, perhaps, was the real tragedy: surprising discoveries in the early hours of the morning.

She couldn't or wouldn't let him ho, the boy with the blond curls and the mischievous smile. The boy who, a long time ago, had approached her with shyness and eagerness, his hand already stretched out and ready to shake hers as formal presentations were being made. The boy whom she had tried so hard to impress, him, _Leopold Fitz,_ not because of his surname but because she felt he was her equal, minds thinking alike.

Tamquam alter idem, as if another self. Even now.

Jemma couldn't wrap her head around the whole situation nor could she forgive him. Forgiveness implied explanations, but all they had was Fitz always on the edge of dragging her into his life and then leaving her out at the very end: one step apart, nothing to help close the distance and fix things. So why start if he was always going to keep her out of his life, his problems, picking companionable near silence rather than carefully constructed sentences poured out in grammatical fashion? She would tell him everything and there he was bottling things up. There he was single-handedly destroying things. If there was blame, it was entirely his. Unanswered questions and mixed signals, her own insistence was embarrassing and a mere consequence.

They had always had honesty, a sense of freedom that came from speaking their minds. And loyalty! Other people, but the other had always come first.

She could pretend that nothing had happened, but not forever: it was a game bound to end in tragedy. It was a game that would have them both on the losing side, the most precious thing of all - gone. They would never make out alive and together, now that was enough food for thought to make her go on for days if not weeks, and it turned out that history was changing them and adventure came at a high cost: she'd give it all back, the power working at Hut Eight gave her included, if it meant getting her relationship with Fitz back.

Oh to be back at Cambridge instead of being here, now, at Bletchley, embittered ad alone. Or even that day at the train station, standing in front of each other, with their hopes and dreams and that irresistible impulse to kiss him! Perhaps she had been right all along: they were the sorts that did not.

"What are you doing?" she asked, as Fitz stepped closer, precise and calculated movements as he picked her up.

"Taking you upstairs," he replied matter of factly.

"And here I was thinking we'd walk to Glasgow." She paused. She could have kicked herself for saying so and for leaning into the touch, trying to find a more comfortable position for both of them. "You can put me down."

One of them had to stop playing this game and face the truth: that it could not go on like this, past hours mattered as much as their reciprocal silences, that this farce and pretending that all was well would only make things worse, announcing their downfall. It was inevitable, meant to be, for this was the one thing that was changing things exponentially: not the sex they had yet to have, but this. This. This!  But why did it have to be her, after all the blame wasn't hers; why was she the one who had to ruin things and start an argument, exposing the truth? Fitz should take his own responsibilities and it all, this perverse anthropological study to show that they were still trying, to show that they cared too much to let it all go to ruin.

"Maybe I don't want to."

"Ah."

"We haven't seen much of each other lately."

"Yonks, really."

"Yonks? When did you start using the word yonks?"

They should not be doing this: bantering and focusing on the tenderness, the few good things they still had. "You know, there's lots of debutantes working here. Debs, the call them, no doubt considered trustworthy due to their upper-class upbringing. One picks up a word or two."

Over the threshold, not how she would have imagined it going.

Fitz let her down. "I don't you're getting enough sleep, Jemma."

"I know. Everyone knows."

"Well, now you have the chance. You're not working today, are you?"

She shook her head. "No. You?"

"Me neither."

His hand already on the doorknob, he was ready to leave.

"Fitz? Please don't leave."

Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave _me._ Now and forever, she would not beg him and be pitied.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." She paused. "Come here?"

For a moment, far away, clear as day, two phantom versions of them that belonged to a future that was not theirs. Not Bletchley, somewhere else, somewhere neutral that did not carry history and secrets: an immense number of possibilities. The two of them together at the end of a long day. No war, discussing work, a couple of jokes, listening to the wireless, a book in Fitz's hands, reading to her and doing all the voices - he had always been good at that.

Standing on either side of the bed, wedding bands around their fingers, the promise of a lifetime together. In love, living the best life, and making the most of it: it could be them if they worked hard enough. One chaste kiss, lingering, deepening: she envied them and those who had made it but such a future, no matter how appealing, was foreign and alien - miles away, made impossible by their farce. It was all or nothing and they were choosing nothing, better still than living a lie and spend their days trying to make it work.

A giggle at the back of Jemma's throat, she let it out in a cough. It all seemed surreal.

It had to do, this acknowledgement of impossibilities and the anticipation for something that could temporarily and perhaps never be. Lying in bed together, they could start kissing and take their clothes off, fumbling hands wandering in careful exploration, the box of French letters retrieved from the drawer next to her bed and its contents finally used. Sex in the hour of their need, one last desperate attempt to feel close to each other - as close as possible. His hands on her, not the first time, irregular breaths and soft moans forming at the back of their throats, the last pieces of clothing removed at last and ungallantly dropped on the floor. Let's have sex, she could tell him, if you're feeling like it. Let them step over the point of no return, let sex be it - the end of it all, a betrayal of everything she had stood for so far. Fitz had told her that it wouldn't change things, but it would: no doubt, coming down from their climaxes, they'd be filled with regret.

It would not do.

Fitz turned around, facing her, and smiled softly. "One summer," he said. "One summer, my mother took me to the Shetland islands, some friends lived there or whatever. It rained the whole day, you couldn't leave the house lest you got stuck."

"Must have been quite... an experience."

"Boring, really. Age fourteen and being stuck in the countryside, away from your friends. Now... I'm starting to think that village life would suit me."

She ignored him. "Fitz?"

"Yes?"

 "Do you ever wish you could go back to Cambridge, to how things were between us. Realize it sooner?"

"Why"

"Because..." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Because if all we have rests on a few happy moments, than I do not know if-" She stopped, burying herself under the covers and shifting her body closer to his. It took time, that stretched itself to eternity, the events of the previous night not easily forgotten. No tears, however, she had shed them all last night: all there was, was dryness and detachment. This wasn't her. "We used to make a really good team, didn't we?"

Fitz remained silent. A slippery and careful matter of tenses, anything but the present simple. There was no hope and they were no longer a team, at least it felt like that, buried under doubts, anger and growing resentments.

"I do," he said. "I knew long before that day at the train station, the day we didn't kiss. It was staring at me n the face and the next thing I knew was that you were leaving Cambridge to go and work in... here, at Bletchley. Next thing we knew there was a war and we were in the middle of it. God, Jemma."

"You wanted to take me  to the train station at all costs."

"I couldn't let you go and I thought- I thought, if only I could find the courage to tell you and end the misery."

"You knew before me, didn't you?"

And now she knew before him, that all of this was coming apart. Irony at its best.

"One day it was just there." She went on. "That day, had we kissed... We would have had more time."

"Not enough."

"Never that."

Precious moments, not this hot mess they did not know what to do with, Perhaps, had they overstepped their histories and fears, personalities and pasts, they would have had a way to handle change and ease into it, instead of jumping in it blindfolded. Too many secrets filling the room, but they could have had it all, they could have had so much more: all of it, but not this. It was hardly them anymore save for fragments of reality and well known features that had still to desert them. Fragile, etiolated: it could all be lost. Today, the next one, in a month. She had never looked at this fact squarely in the face before, and how to live with such a sudden realisation, this sense of doom and inevitability that would never leave her?

"I'm sorry about yesterday, Jemma."

"I'm not. And I hope you know, Fitz, that I cannot go on like this. I won't."

"Jemma."

"Don't Jemma me."

"I need you- I need you to trust me,"

"But don't you see? That's the problem!"

"Nothing bad is going to happen to you."

"What about you, Fitz? What about you?" He had said it himself, they would one day throw him to the fucking wolves.

"What about me?"

She sighed.

"Jemma, if I were to ask you to come to Glasgow with me next week, would you say no?"

She thought about it, an unexpected proposal that she had longed to hear. Glasgow and its paradise-like connotations. Glasgow where Fitz would never take her. Far away it could either be a blessing or their undoing: it could be, above all, be a chance to escape their lives and doubts before they would start to catch up again. Their arguments: dismissed but not forgotten; Interrupted for they would never talk: not here, not in London, not in Glasgow - too stubborn, irresistible temptation mixing with the peculiar thrill of self-destruction. They were doing this to themselves, no one else was to blame.

"I knew it, forget I ever asked," Fitz said at last.

"No."

"No?"

"No, let's do this!"

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

To hell with it, she thought, it was going to happen whatever came next. They'd always have the past and nothing could escalate as long as his mother was there, she felt sorry for Hannelore Fitz, used like that before even meeting her: But they would never have a shouting match or expose their feelings while having an audience. Fitz would never do it to his mother, she would never dare take it out on someone who was offering her a place to stay: No, she could see it now, they would pretend even better that nothing had changed but for their friendship turned into love.

Another possibility, lining up among the other millions, appealing and peculiar: Fractious versions of themselves facing each other at last, voices raising and falling in anger. They could be those strangers, those phantom versions of themselves that had all the courage that was currently deserting them. Yet here they were, lying next to each other - a pair of hypocrites. They could fix things, they could fix everything if they had enough willpower to do so: But this! Sudden and dizzy realisation, that it was safe territory, a way to protect their hearts and shield themselves from inevitable heartbreak: The first step to detach themselves and safe guard their feelings, not caring about anything anymore. They did not have to leap and trust the other unconditionally only to be proven wrong at the very end. It was a twisted defence mechanism that was only isolating them further: Jemma felt watched and judged by the ghosts of their past selves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Women were first brought into Bletchley Park either after being approached at university or because of trusted family connections. Debutantes were prized, as they were considered the most trustworthy due to their upper class backgrounds, they were called "debs" and performed mostly administrative and clerical work.  
> \- Some people have never been to Shetland and witnessed a downpour and it shows.


	14. Silent Witness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1943

 

Not March. They had been busy, Fitz had been busy, and they had hardly seen each other. He had spent two long and exhausting weeks in London working for his father, fourteen days, a time she had spent alone and relieved: his absence had given her the long waited opportunity to think. After his return their paths had only crossed sporadically, she had tried to sign up for as many night-shifts she could: working from midnight to eight in the morning, spending the day sleeping. The feeling of quietness that came with the awareness of being one of the few people awake had given her an unlimited sense of both peace, and ease that had provided her with enough motivation to keep on going.

Stolen moments in Hut Two, their relationship had been reduced to shared meals that ended shortly after they started: Hundreds of people around them, nothing could go wrong as long as they had an audience that watched them. They would not make a fuss, nor would they start an argument: It was all too public, too exposed with the entire world as a silent witness to their own private drama. Instead, they had reverted to their light-hearted humour and teasing jokes that had characterized their time at Cambridge: With their romantic relationship eclipsed and pushed to the side, one last, desperate attempt to save their friendship, they had gone back to the beginning - tiptoeing, deferring and always agreeing, too afraid to speak their own mind. Not that it mattered.

It was joy mixed with indifference, the latter stronger than the former: she could no longer think about telling him that she loved him and her feelings had long been repressed, tidied and bottled up. What did it matter when their friendship was still standing? The most precious and important thing of all. If Fitz knew about what he was doing, if he had long guessed, he didn't show. Even better, she was sure that he would have stirred an argument: A reaction at last! He'd call it Englishness at its best, though one had to define Englishness first. An insult, it didn't make sense to her and surely he could come up with far worse if he were to put some effort into it. She knew she could come up with far worse about him and herself and sometimes she had imagined herself saying those harsh, angry and unimaginable words that were bound to set her free at last.

Englishness. What he didn't know or didn't care to know was that it wasn't an insult, it was a fact: The essence of a worldview passed down through generations, dripping down like poison from parents to children. You did not speak about your feelings, perhaps you did not even think about how you felt. You either drank or repressed it. It dated back centuries and was she had ever known and it did make her wonder - lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling - what it felt like to be completely in touch with your feelings, to have an emotional life rolling and rapid. Not that it mattered.

Not March, the end of April. April the cruellest of months. April with his shoures sote which the droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote, as the poem went.

Almost May. Now, they allowed themselves to be free and such freedom, which had momentarily deserted them, now felt addictive and alluring: It should have always been like this. Polished versions of themselves, so different from the ones at Bletchley, neat and honest, walking up Argyle Street. Strangers even to themselves.

Glasgow at last! Not at all like she remembered it to be. Luggage in their hands, their steps on the pavement, the city too noisy for the click of their heels on the ground to be heard. Not like Cambridge at all! And them! Older but none the wiser, they no longer idealized each other, exposed in all their imperfection - they had argued on the train until she had left the cabin to seek some solitude, away from the annoying inflection of Fitz's voice. Deep breaths, knuckles turning white as her grip against the window tightened - fresh air hitting her face. A couple of deep breaths as the realization that they had long fallen off their pedestals started to set it: they no longer looked at each other thinking that the other could do no wrong. A destabilizing and disorientating thought: What remained? The ground under their feet cracking. Things going havoc. It was all too unpredictable, out of control. Not that it mattered. She had watched Bletchley getting smaller and smaller, a distant and unrecognizable spot.

Estranged, alien, foreign, Bletchley felt like a past that belonged to someone else entirely. They were getting rid of it. It would not last. How easy now to pretend that all of it had never happened, to fake ignorance: part of the official lie, of course, but the easiness with which the story of the radio factory rolled off her tongue. They could forget themselves, they could forget their past and their problems anywhere not only in Glasgow, they did not need it. It could be any other city, away from the countryside, away from Bletchley, maybe it could even be around the corner, no need to leave Buckinghamshire - lives from before the war with all that came with it where lost, but to get them back! To get them back! That innocence and that freedom, complete oblivion which now appeared like a blessing. Problems still there, there had always been some, only they had not noticed or had pretended not to notice; One day, they'd have to face those problems, together or alone, but then what? Memories staring at them accusingly and them still unable to leave the other alone.

Fitz's childhood bedroom - small, filled with books and dictionaries. They had gotten to his mother's flat in the late afternoon, exhausted and sweaty. Their luggage lay discarded in a corner, Fitz had pulled out a jumper and now socks were dangling from the edge and an old dressing gown lay discarded on the floor: Neither of them had bothered to tidy up and there they were, carefully selected personal items scattered on the floor. Slobs, both of them, but there were more important things to worry about and it seemed a waste of time to focus their attention on such trivial matters.

Jemma picked up the tin box of French letters and placed it on the bedside table, covering it with one of Fitz's childhood books - on the cover, two children and a street corner in what was supposed to be Berlin; And then she looked away, out of the window, her reflection staring back at her. A sunny day with a blue and cloudless sky, sun shining over the industrial city.

Up Argyle Street, Fitz smiling at her and she smiling back, sincerely and genuinely. The city with its cold, indifferent welcome, all around them. They looked out of place, Fitz looked out of place though she could swear he had always talked about the place with equal love and fondness, distorted representation through the lenses of subjectivity, he had altered reality by contaminating it with his own feeling. Now there was a person whose emotional life did not revolve around taciturnity. Maybe he had grown out of it, maybe he had never considered it home to begin with and had merely tried to convince himself that the Scottish city had been his home. And yet it was difficult not to think of Glasgow as a place that meant to him as much as Sheffield meant to her.

Glasgow, it had changed from how it was preserved in her memories, that summer trip with her parents. It was strange and different from Cambridge and certainly from Bletchley, not as wild and alive as London. Famous for its shipbuilding and marine engineering which had produced innovative and famous vessels. The Second City of the British Empire for much of the Victorian and Edwardian period, Fitz had told her, a remark to which she had answered that many cities argued that the title was theirs. Laughter at the back of their throats, coming out and filling the air.

The sound of the house door opening and closing barely reached her.

She tied her hair back and put on a cardigan before making her way down the small corridor, Fitz's voice and that of his mother no longer an undistinguishable babble but clear, loud, neatly articulated - who knew how long they had been standing there. Time escaped her. Short, hesitant steps, meeting his mother seemed like something with too much meaning connected to it, a point from which they could not come back. And yet, she had to remember herself, was it not meant to happen like this? She and Fitz had been friends for years and before! His mother may have come to Cambridge - her parents had once, meeting halfway in London. It might as well have happened then.

"You should have come last week for Pèsach, we could have celebrated it together with Jemma."

She spied on them, an external spectator, a silent witness to the world and to life happening in front of her, as she stood there partially hidden by the door frame. It was surprising to discover that Fitz looked like his dad if only with his mother's fair hair and blue eyes - other than that it was sad to admit it that Fitz was the spitting image of his father: The resemblance perfect. It wasn't the surname that gave him away and that made people ask about any relation to the Alistair Fitz, his appearance was the first thing that gave him away.

"I'm afraid I was busy. I had to meet Vater and extra work added up."

"About that-"

"Ach, Mama!"

"Fitz." Hannelore Fitz's voice bore a sense of gravity to it, a warning, worry. Oozing through, it delivered everything at once. In a word, much more effective and concise than Jemma could ever dream to be. "Be careful."

"Ah." He paused, his voice sounded humorous, almost entertained. Jemma caught the glimpse of a smile before Fitz turned around, taking three cups out of the cupboard. "Du weißt doch, Unkraut vergeht nicht."

Fitz's laugh filled the small kitchen, echoing. A guttural sound, that started out nasally. His mother stone cold and silent.

"Leopold James Fitz!"

His first name, a name Fitz did not care about and never used, not even in its three letter abbreviation, pronounced the Teutonic way. A sharp whisper that stopped everything, including Fitz. Frozen, he stopped at once to take the piss.

"I'm sorry."

There, his tone changed at once! Quite in touch with their own feelings, she could never be like them: Fitz so ready to show his own vulnerability and awareness of not being untouchable, his mother angry and annoyed at her son's behaviour, not letting it slip away, pretending not to have heard. Look at them, and there she was like an intruder - so different from them, so alienated. To revert to German, Fitz was being unfair! It didn't make things easier, that was for sure, always hiding, hiding, hiding, just like she was. This, it seemed inevitable, would be their downfall.

Jemma coughed, announcing herself, an entire conversation cut short because of her; She would have liked to hear the rest.  She walked in with her hand stretched out, trembling fingers she desperately tried to keep still.

"How do you do?" she asked, smiling.

"It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Fitz speaks very highly of you."

"Does he know?"

"Oh, do sit down. Tea is almost ready."

The kettle started to boil, the sharp sound erupted and filled the air, only to vanish little by little. Hannelore empties its content into the teapot - steam slowly rising, lifting itself into the air, fading away and vanishing after having danced around, swirling in a mesmerizing white pattern.

Jemma sat down and looked herself around: It was an open space with windows that faced the street on one side, some book shelves and there they were. There she was! Once more unable to step over the inanities and reach for the larger thought. Looking  at Fitz beside her, pushing his chair closer to hers: It had to mean something after everything that happened. They had been friends once, whether they will were or not was left to be discussed. All they had had rested on happy years at university, on a juvenile affection that had turned into love, and unspoken dreams. Did they still matter? Neither could tell. Too afraid of the silence that might follow those questions and the awkwardness that would inevitably come along with it, to ask those questions out loud.

Fitz sat down beside her, soundlessly pushing his chair closer to her. Carefully they watched his mother reach for the tea and the small white porcelain cups with a pattern of red roses on them, mathematical precision in all her movements. He smirked at her and winked.

"We were thinking about going out for a drink," Fitz started matter of factly.

"We are?" She asked surprised, her own words mixing with Hannelore's.

She sat there, Fitz's hand touched hers: one inch at the time, little by little, and with such a nonchalance that the gesture - daring and not allowed in such precarious times - appeared as natural and fluent as possible. Nothing out of the ordinary. His mother could have turned around any minute now, part of the game, she supposed, but as jumpy as they were, they could have retracted their hands at the smallest of movements. Her fingers touched his - tips against tips, closer and back again. It was nothing - feeble and lingering - while it also provided more explanations than unspoken words and assumptions ever would. They shouldn't be doing this.

The situation was not to be described, all she could think about was his hand on hers. A bold, loud statement that puzzled her as much as it pleased her - beyond friendship, back into the realm of infinite possibilities. Fitz raised his eyebrows, and smiled at her teasingly -  thoughts wondering for a moment to the past and the future, the tin box of French letters discarded on his bedside table, under one of his childhood books.

"Yes. I'm pretty sure we can manage to meet the old gang." He paused. "It's not a problem, is it?"

"Why should it be, you're both adults. Just be careful, the two of you, It's been less than a week since the Aberdeen Mittwoch Blitz."

Ah, the big Blitz in Aberdeen: Jemma had heard about it from one of the Wrens who had almost lost her family. Last Wednesday, between twenty past ten and eleven o'clock, twenty Luftwaffe bombers had raided the city unstopped because there were no planes at RAF Leuchars. Ninety eight people had died and approximately twenty thousand homes had been destroyed. She also knew that Hannelore's Fitz worries had reason to exist: Glasgow ad always been identified as vulnerable to German attack, and with its high concentration of heavy industry densely populated, tightly packed tenements in the city meant that bombs landing here could cause many casualties.

"Not to mention Blitz Chlydebank _,_ eh?"

Air raids on the nights of 13 and 14 March 1941, had caused the town of Chlydebank to be largely destroyed: one thousand bombs causing the worst destruction and civilian loss of life in all of Scotland. One thousand two hundred people had died, thousand people had been seriously injured, and hundreds more had been injured by blast debris. They said that the production of ships and munitions for the Allies made it a similar target to Barrow

"Don't joke about such things, Fitz!" said his mother.

"I wasn't!" His tone oozed defensiveness, painting every syllable. "Listen, Glasgow has communal shelters in some streets and back courts, we'll be careful."

"I say, if it's time alone you're looking for..."

"That's not it!" Jemma quickly cut her off. She felt her cheeks flush and looked away, hands quickly withdrawn. "We're not..."

Fitz's mother turned around and looked down with puzzlement and entertainment, there was a hint of amusement in it all. Neither of them could even pretend that she had not seen their laced hands, it was hard not to do so at such a close distance, and their sudden and startled reaction was enough to give them away in first place.

Hannelore sat down, carefully placing the tea pot on the table and handing out the cups.

"Escaping our lives at the-"

"Cambridge, a city of ghosts, I'm afraid."

"So, Jemma, Fitz tells me you did mathematics?"

"Yes. With numbers, truth and beauty are the same thing. You know you're getting somewhere when the equations start looking... beautiful. And you know the numbers are taking you closer to the secret of how things are.." She paused. "Pity it's all come to an end, with women not being allowed more than three years at university. But I'm looking forward to real life, once this dreadful war is over."

"Are you interested in teaching?"

"Goodness, no! Everyone keeps asking me that, I'm not sure I'm the right person to do the job."

"Any plans?"

"I simply plan to resume." She'd not go around collecting apologies, that was for sure, nor would she reach compromises. That was to keep it simple, to think that she and Fitz were always on the edge of hating each other, mixed feelings that could be sorted out if only they wanted to. This was their chance. "This situation is not - ideal. Life before feels like a dream, strange to think about it like that."

A three hundred year old tradition of drinking tea born in Eastern Friesland, lower Saxony, she would soon learn. The tea itself a blend of rich Assam black tea - a second flush, the summer harvest, Fitz's mother explained - mixed with fannings. Jemma stared at the red-golden infusion inside the teapot, focusing on the flavourful and aromatic as Fitz talked about their train journey - all of it, never lingering on their screaming match.

Usually brewed with water from this region, softer and sweeter than average. Without calcium and magnesium ions resulting in a brewed tea which was sweeter and with complex flavours. For a moment she thought about a world without war, freedom of movement, the past ten years and more erased, on holiday in Lower Saxony and not in Glasgow drinking tea. Her parents would have liked that, stereotypical English people abroad or maybe they would not have appreciated Johnny Foreigner telling them what to do and how to drink their tea.  

"At least you two have each other," said Fitz's mother.

Jemma had no idea how that topic had come up, she had missed five entire minutes of conversation, not caring about Fitz's perfect made up picture of their journey. The clock on the wall ticked away the time relentlessly, the noise made by its pointers the only audible noise. Then she said, "Do we? I mean, yes. Sure. If we want to look at like that."

"It's a matter of cultural identity," said Fitz. "The tea drinking thing. We don't drink it like this every time, it would take you ages to finish with such small cups."

"Oh."

"Kluntje?" he asked, taking a pair of tongues into his hand and lifting on small crystal of sugar.

"Yes, please." She hated sugar in her tea, but she heard herself say yes anyway. Formality! Desire not to go against tradition and show herself to be just like her parents! Englishness, Englishness, Englishness - perhaps he was silently throwing around accusations. They could not argue, not in front of his mother. The situation was theirs to control.

He placed the rock of sugar in her empty cup and then poured over the liquid, she imagined it cracking inside the cup - small at first, then running deed, soon to be destroyed.

"And cream too." She added, hoping it would not be disgusting. They had put such effort into it and cream was hard to get with the rationing going on. Who was she to refuse? After all they were sharing aspects of a culture that was foreign to her, she had to focus on the happiness that such openness provided rather than on the thought of a possible dreadful taste.

Less than half a teaspoon, she watched as Fitz carefully ladled it into her teacup, carefully brushing against the side of the cup in circular motion, forming swirls of cream - like clouds - a variety of patterns.

"Do I have to stir?"

"No stirring allowed, the flavour has to slowly mix in your mouth."

"Why the tea spoons, then?

"Leopold-"

"Mama!"

"You're such a child. Fitz is merely taking the Mick, Jemma. You can stir your tea if you want to."

They laughed, it seemed called for, but she felt like she was laughing at herself for taking things too serious.

"I didn't know you came from Lower Saxony, Fitz always talks about Dresden. He never said-"

"I moved there to work, secretarial work at the local police station. Then I met Alistair and what is it you say? The rest is history: we marry, had Fitz. Ten years later we're in Glasgow and he's walking out."

Facts, facts, facts, complete detachment in Fitz's mother's voice as she told her that Glasgow had been their last attempt to save their marriage, much to Fitz's embarrassment. Glasgow, then Alistair had moved to London and she had been left behind with a ten year of child: safe and alone. Moving had not worked, Hannelore admitted with honesty, Alistair hated Germany and all it's people, including his own wife. He resented her work, her nationality, their marriage, her influence on his son. Love had died out and Alistair had left.

Good riddance, Fitz replied.

She spent half a minute fighting the urge to tell him that it was funny, him saying such things, when he seemed to spend quite a lot of time with his father in London. And quite willingly too.

"Do you miss it? Only, I always thought that no one could spent a significant part of their lives in one place and not miss it once they leave. I, for one, miss Sheffield every day."

"Dresden and Lower Saxony. Despite what's going on."

"They're not all like him, you know?" Fitz said. "I told you, Jemma, some have been calling it most reprehensible of all miscarriages of government for years."

There they were playing that thrilling, familiar and self-destructive game of putting words into the other's mouth - the feeling it provided was like a rush of adrenaline, addictive because it made them distinct from each other. _Christ_ , she wanted to scream, banging her hands on the table and getting up - her chair pushed backwards either falling or re-establishing its equilibrium. How naive and forgetful did he think she was? She remembered! She remembered everything, including the news about the riots and the growing anti-Italian sentiment, the forced relocations and the news about his childhood friend. That peculiar way of pronouncing the word rumour in relations to Winston Churchill's decisions, making it clear that they were no rumours at all.

She wanted to tell him that he sounded too apologetic, but his mother spoke first. "I keep telling Fitz that one day I'll go back, but he won't listen."

How very like him, Jemma thought. Always talking and never listening, too caught up in his own private affairs to take notice of the people around him. Sometimes it seemed as if Fitz refused to listen out of sheer stubbornness, unspoken words did not lead on to words or actions that might commit them to their consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "Aprille with his shoures sote" Canterburty Tales, general prologue.  
> \- The book on Fitz's bedside table is supposed to be Emil and the Detectives (1929) by E. Kästner.  
> \- Blitz Chlydebank: Scottish Gaelic for Clydebank Blitz.  
> \- Taking the piss/the Mick/the Michael has been noted since the 1930s.  
> \- Unkraut vergeht nicht: it would take more than that to finish me/him etc off! (according to the Collins German/English dictionary).  
> \- grammar? I don't know her. Sorry about that


	15. In Between the Sheets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1943

 

"People look different at home," she said.

They were sitting in the kitchen, the world silent and asleep. Empty tumblers of scotch-whiskey, empty but for some lonely drops of golden liquid, resting on the table with their coasters underneath - white circles in a sea of dark brown, the table looked like a universe of its own. Books in precarious equilibrium piled in one corner, a leaning tower that was at risk of falling down and had been since the very beginning: Neither of them could find the strength to care about it: It would be Fitz's problem if the books were to fall down; After all, they were his and he had been the one to place them there. A loud noise! It would wake his mother but it would also be welcomed distraction: A break from the violent silence that had long settled between them, cumbersome and unpleasant, not at all ignorable, filling the room and slowly becoming unbearable.

Fitz didn't look up, going on with his task with mathematical precision. On how on earth he managed to make a decision he would not end up regretting was a mystery to her: surely he went through the pages too roughly, too quickly, to make up his mind based on the contents of each volume. Monotonously and without any interest, his voice as flat as it could be, he asked, "In what way?

"Off guard."

There they were. There he was, vulnerable and at peace: So different now, in the late evening, with just the two of them occupying the small kitchen, from what he had been up until that moment: He went through his books as if it were a matter of life and death, his entire future depending on it, and at war with himself as he tried to finish his task in time to go to bed.

She wanted to tell him as patronizingly as she could, that he could just as easily postpone his bedtime and go on slowly and uncaringly; But before she could go on talking, he cut her off saying, "Should I be on my guard?"

How to tell him that she felt lonely without turning him off? This attempt at conversation was nothing but a desperate and farfetched attempt to bring them closer and cover their silence. He seemed oblivious, and yet this trip, so wanted and looked forward to, had revealed itself to be quite the disaster, surely she wasn't the only one who had noticed. The smallest of thing was enough to set them off, shutting the other out and standing there elevated by a mawkish sense of  being wholesomely and tragically in the right. Words were forced, anger swallowed down so as to pretend that things had not changed at all when they had been. They had been! For such a long time now, that it seemed almost impossible to recollect a time before.

This trip had been a plan to tryst and it had backfired from the very moment they had stepped foot on the train. There, a fixed moment in time, the moment to and from which everything had run - inescapable. They were reaching their limits. Unable to look at each other without feeling rage verging on indifference, silence that smothered their differences and brought them closer just as much as it distanced them: Now, there seemed to be no mutual consolation, no touching no love and the usual assumption that they were on the same side was starting to falter and wear thing under the weight of her repressed feelings. Their chance ruined, and yet why not try to make it what they so desperately wanted it to be?

Jemma got up and walked towards the kitchen counter, getting herself a glass and filling it with water. Painfully slowly, she watched the liquid fill the container - the smallest of movements delayed to make it last longer, stretching it towards infinity. Pathetic! Just another way to avoid him and any possible confrontation.

"No. No, we're just- We're just friends waiting to go to sleep."

Out of the small window in front of her, into the night, complete darkness: the mandatory blackout was by far the most unpopular aspect of war, even more than the rationing. Far away, down in the street, movement: A group of soldiers in their khaki uniforms walking down the street and disappearing moments later. Life felt far away, and there she was nothing but a witness who lacked the means to step back into it. The only way was to apologize and be honest for they had treated each other unfairly. They had been snappy, on edge, ready to argue, the smallest of things had been enough to set them off and raise their voices. Harsh unspoken words on the tip of her tongue. Some of the things that had been said were not meant at all: a mere reflex, she couldn't and wouldn't stand next to him and merely listen to his sharp accusations, the sneer in all his you-s. His voice, the archaic and defensive inflection of his words, as fresh in her memory as that day on the train: part of her urged to mock him at any given opportunity. Between the saddle and the ground, he could swear he wasn't the one to blame, in the name of the Almighty how could anyone remain passive?

"Do you have a book for me? It's just that I've seen you cataloguing them and I thought you could lend me one. I'll give it back, I promise."

She still had some unread novels at Bletchley and it was inconvenient to go and buy something new, but Fitz's judgement when it came to books was spot on, she had always thought it to be incredible. His all time favourites were off limits, he never recommended them afraid, perhaps, that people would not like them as much as him. But everything else! She loved flipping through the pages and find his careful annotations, the pieces of paper left inside. His mind worked fast, scribbled words in his incomprehensible shorthand. But they were there, his thought put on paper, an insight to them.

"Happy or sad?"

Something that would get any sort of reaction from her. Cathartic! Freeing her at last!

"Sad," she answered.

"I warn you, it'll break your heart."

Already broken. She shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling and a sigh escaped her mind. Uncomfortable, it gave her too much time to think about herself, about him, God knew what passed through his mind at the moment. People, some more jokingly than other, always joked about the two of them being psychologically linked to each other: speaking the same language, completing each other's sentences; So far away in time, if only those people could see them now in their own impassiveness, not giving away any thought and feeling, instead, bottling them up, nice and tidy, quietly, far away and out of reach. Those remarks didn't belong to the current versions of themselves.

"Who's Radcliffe?" She paused, turning around to look at him. Facing him at last. He didn't look annoyed, if only he could bring himself to look at her, she thought, she'd stop with inanities at once and get to the real problem no matter how much courage it took to speak freely, unrepressed, with no boundaries and hope. If they were to argue, if their silent accusations were voiced and she could no longer stand the thought of staying at his mother, shed take the first train in the morning, stopping in Sheffield and spend her last free days there with her parents. She longed to see them, not to ask for advice, but merely to reconnect and know that there were other people in the world that made her feel like she was home. Then, a sharp pain! at the thought of leaving Fitz behind. It had to do. "Only his name's come up a couple of times during dinner. Your mother- You all seemed very fond of him."

She didn't give a damn, it leaved her completely indifferent and at dinner, this matter of not knowing any of the people mentioned, had been irrelevant - shadows of people that had nothing to do with her and never would.  He had introduced her to his friends, she could have lived even if he had not. It had been fun, albeit short, her and Fitz sitting at opposite sides of the table. Afterwards they had been alone, sitting there listening to the live band playing the last jazz songs of the evening, people dancing in front of them. A couple of khaki uniforms. The same searchlights in the sky as now, patrolling the sky, in search for Luftwaffe airplanes.

"A friend of my parents. Well, more of my mom at this point, but still. He had a daughter, has a daughter, more or less my age. Ophelia, we used to be - I'd say friends, but that's not it. She developed fascist sympathies, like many other people. But they were more than sympathies, let's be honest; She stopped talking to me, my mother, and even to Radcliffe. She married some... I don't know. The last thing Radcliffe told us is that she goes by Madame H-something. Haven't heard from her in years. Thank God for that."

"Oh."

"Pity he's abroad at the moment, I'd have liked you to meet him. His been like a father to me after my own walked out on us ten years ago. Even now. Even though I sometimes help my father with... stuff."

She felt the urge to laugh at him and his use of the words sometimes. A loud, bitter laugh - she could imagine herself doing so, but resisted the impule. Instead she went back looking out of the window, following the streams of the searchlights in the sky - underpowered and usually ineffective against aircraft at altitudes above 12,000 feet.

"Listen, Jemma," Fitz said, his tone changed at once: deeper, more serious, no longer in the realm of frivolous conversation. She turned around, crossing her arms,  and moving her weight from one leg to the other.

All she could think about was sitting down, taking his hand and be honest, interrupt him before the upcoming conversation could get the chance to grow. Words, they'd have to face the consequences.

"About the other day. I'm sorry about my reaction, I may have spoken too harshly."

The other day meant nothing. The other day was a series of occasions that went back in time spreading themselves though the years. Even at Cambridge. It had all started there. It wasn't about talking too harshly either, it was about being friends and constantly pulling the rug from under her feet, stopping just in time and changing his mind. The lack of trust, that hurt her more than any harsh words could do. She could deal with harsh words, she could reply, the first violin answering to the second as they said but she did trust him and could never stop doing so. What had she done to lose it? Did she look like someone who told things to people?

"When?"

"I don't think you're stupid. I always thought- I still think you're the splendidest. Being here... I can't stand this city, not anymore. I can't stand the people whispering, spreading poison, it goes where it's welcomed. I know how they look at me and with my father being who he is-"

"Fitz..."

"No, they look at you with suspicion, holding back. Justification for some people's ideas as if you were personally responsible for all the bad that is happening."

She had never been interested in his eagerness to help, the one that had been growing exponentially for the past couple of years, his atonement for a nonexistent sin as if he himself had been responsible. Responsible for Germany, though apparently they blamed that on women. Responsible for the forced relocations. He could never be like them, he cared too much about everything.

"Us of all people!"

The simplicity and honesty of his revelation made her regret thinking about his apparent glibness and she thought, for a fraction of a second, about their night when they had danced together in Hut Two, his admission that it was all an act and that he hardly knew himself. Disillusionment oozing through his words, though why should it be any different?

"We've always been or seemed to be so alike in our thoughts and one doesn't always get the opportunity for a trip up north."

"No." She paused, taking a deep breath and exhaled sharply. "I've been quite muddled as of late, but you do make one collect one's thoughts and it doesn't happen every day to have a quiet room and... you. To think in front of."

He looked at her, puzzled. But she went on, too enwrapped in her thoughts and afraid to lose the courage and the pace of her own thoughts rapid and rolling leaving her behind: She'd apologize, but what she did not know or didn't care to know was that apologizing sincerely and honestly, not merely spitting out those three simple words, required courage and the final admission that she had been undoubtedly and unmistakably in the wrong. It would not do. A different kind of confession, a different kind of honesty.

"I miss you," she admitted, three words not the one she had intended to speak but just as true. She missed everything: the early days at Cambridge, a life time ahead of them! the beginning, therefore a moment closer to infinity! The early days at Bletchley and that extreme happiness that came from having him there. Gone were the lies, and there they were together in a situation that by all means could be extraordinary. It took courage to admit it, let down by life, and friendships. Her heart beat faster, and gripped the counter tightly her knuckles turning white. She went on saying, "I miss us. There it, I've said it. I miss us."

"I'm here. We're here. Together."

Jemma smiled and Fitz laughed nervously, a laugh that was called for but felt like a natural conclusion to it, she felt herself on the verge of bursting. There it was, as she looked at him sitting in front of her, in his worn out dressing gown and underneath his pyjama, ruffled hair and tired watery eyes, amusement too! The boy that such a long time ago had caught her attention. The most interesting one, the only one she had desperately needed to impress. A wave of affection! They were solving nothing and she felt, thinking about an action that no doubt in the sorry months and years she would end up regretting, that they were digging their own grave lulled by a sense of false security. It had to do, apologies were unnecessary and so was honesty at least complete one.

"But it's not... It's-"

"No." He shook his head. "I've been acting like a low cad, haven't I?"

"I think we're both at fault here. But there's this chasm between us made up off all the things we said and didn't say, and-"

"So... About this situation."

"Can we start over?"

"Like when we met at Cambridge? Those long excruciating weeks of me trying to find something smart enough to tell you."

"No, before we left for Glasgow." She paused. "These past few days, I haven't been much company and for that I am sorry."

She moved her hand to his cheek and brushed over his cheek with her thumb, small movements back and forth, his stubble ticklish on her skin. She felt him lean into the touch ever so slowly, his head leaning to the side as if to make the most of such contact, something brief that might stop soon; unsurprisingly, he didn't want it to stop.

"I'm glad we're here, no matter how it went until now. We still got time."

"For the first time, it seems."

"We could go somewhere, tomorrow. Not far. We'll be careful."

"I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

"Good. It's settled then, I shall tell my mother first thing in the morning. It'll do us good."

"I'm sure it will."

Her hands on his, she squeezed them reassuringly.

"Your hands are freezing," Fitz observed, closing his hand around hers.

Jemma looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and smiled. "They are, aren't they? Like little ice-buckets."

He took them in his and kissed her knuckles. His warm breath against her skin sent shivers down her spine and then his lips on her knuckles, lingering, soft!

"Goodnight." She paused, gulping. "Fitz."

A decisive moment! They could take a risk and their unhappiness could either be doubled or completely obliterated. Brief uncertainty, sweet lingering in front of a dividing path, before she moved her face closer to his. Infinite and gentle delegations, disbelief and surprise painting their movements, Fitz's eyes wandering to her lips and back up again. The distance between them opening and closing, willingly, patiently and yielding as they tried to make up their minds and find enough clarity to take the final step, change everything once and for all.

"Jemma, I-"

And then her mouths on the corner of his, away again and then kissing him properly. They had been apart for a long time, or so it felt, but such a genuine and tender gesture was enough to make her remember. More confidence, less desperation, it wasn't about saving the remaining intimacy nor was it about feeling close as their relationship crumbled around them.

"I don't know what's going to happen to us all," he said under his breath. "But there's something I've been wanting to do for a long time..."

"Spend the night with me," she whispered. "And I hope that that's what you were about to say, otherwise this just sounds awkward."

Her words filled the space between them and lingered in the air. It was a bold move, an honest one, something they had both planned and looked forward to for such a long time. Over the line of what was proper, they could be caught by his mother: both things made it even more thrilling, something to laugh about.

"Jemma, are you sure?"

"Yes. We can stop if you-"

"I don't want to stop."

"Then we don't. What about your mother? We'll have to be quiet."

"What about her? She's a heavy sleeper." He paused. "We'll be quiet."

"Yes. Oh my dear-"

Neither of them was inexperienced, past relationships summed up in quick and long forgotten remarks that had come up years earlier in an occasion of playful banter. Fitz had jokingly accused her of considering herself the only girl that had ever been in his life, blushing and stuttering three simple words - you are wrong. Truth exposed in an attempt to make themselves distinct from the other and prove that they had had a life before and would have a life after Cambridge. It had been mere curiosity, none of the previous relationships matched up to this one: for the first time, she felt as exposed as she was aroused.

Fitz kissed her again, tongues touching, moist and slippery muscle touching moist and slippery muscle, her back pressed against the edge of the table, his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, and her hands moving on the smooth wooden surface in an attempt to free some space. One of his books fell on a chair, they ignored it and left it there, momentarily forgotten, they'd pick it up in the morning. It would not give them away, it could be there for any reason.

A pair of first time lovers, they walked down the corridor towards Fitz's childhood bedroom, long strides, fingers brushing. She retrieved the French letters, the tin box falling ungallantly to the floor made her laugh loudly, fuelled by Fitz's attempt to shush her and his own sarcastic _oh ha ha ha!_  

He closed the door behind him.

A pair of first time lovers with their fumbling hands and short breaths. And no boundaries. Later, after several attempts interrupted by laughter, from a long way off, voices crying out uninhibited and unashamed, in pleasure as well as in triumph.

Now moonlight was shining through the windows, flooding the room with a silver light, barely enough to outline the furniture, their bodies or the discarded clothes lying on the floor. Peace at last! A sense of quietness and contentment, of ease for the first time in days. The room had a strange new smell: the smell of aftermath and of sweat mixing with the smell of Glasgow coming from outside. It was a poignant smell, sharp, that smelled fresh, lively and hopeful.

Right and subtly inevitable,  they lay there with their bodies dovetailed together, in between the sheets, surrounded by crumbled linen. Relaxing but lacking frivolous conversation, it was a relief that there was no sight of any awkwardness settling between them. Fitz kissed her sleepily and inconclusively, as he held her closer to him and smiled. There, that old affection, ancient and strong, filling her heart, enhanced by the lack of shyness and awkwardness and a thought settling down in her mind, a word intruding her thoughts: Home. Enclosed, safe, why be anywhere else? This had to be enough and surely, at the heart of it, this place was benevolent.


	16. Loyaulté Me Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unebeta'd.

1944

 

They had been fools to think that they could simply start over. Months of resentment and anger, years of secrets were not easily dismissed and pushed to the side and it was impossible to fully ignore them and pretend they had never existed. To reduce it all to a matter of days rather than acknowledging that it had all been part of an ongoing situation had been a mistake, an insurmountable one that could not be fixed with a handshake or a fist bump - the moment skin touched marking the restoration of a friendship. Everything ship shape in Bristol fashion: their own feelings no longer theirs, belonging to the past, to a foreign county where things were done differently, bottled up - neat and tidy, prim and proper. How innocent! How naive! How foolish! Jemma could no longer recognize herself.

Now, harsh and angry words on the tip of her tongue. Cruel words about to come out as her heart pound hard in her chest: She wanted to tell him that she hated him, make herself distinct from him and ho against everything that had ever been said about them, taking her stand. She was her own person. She was! And she could hurt him with the same easiness and nonchalance with which he could hurt her. Part of her wanted to hurt him first, speak before he could cut her off and say something equally harsh and insulting - if she detached herself from all of it, rising above and further away, looking at the whole scene from a stranger's point of view, she'd come out victorious. For the first time, for the last time, she'd be the one in control, moving everything, make everyone dance to whatever tune she sung: The ultimate puppet master. Oh, to be able to deliver such angry and insincere words just to see the shock on his face, a reaction at last. No doubt the remains of Fitz's facade would crumble, leaving him as raw and exposed as she herself was feeling.

Bewilderment and fear were washing over her in waves, alternating with anger and rage, freezing her time. Neither Jemma or Fitz dared to move, the situation was standing in a precarious equilibrium, kept intact by fear of consequences. At her feet, the lid of the tin box she had given to him years earlier as they had sat on a bench in the park - the memories as fresh as the day they had been made: his most prized possessions, its content revealed at last! All she could think about were the crumpled sheets of paper in front of her, their edges bent so as to fit inside the box, and her trembling hands. She didn't dare to speak, afraid that words would fail her.

They had been fools to think that they had solved their problems and fixed their friendship. That night in Glasgow, sitting in Fitz's mother's kitchen, and the days that had followed: an entire year of hope and positivity, of things being back as they had once been. They had thought it had done them nothing but good. Idiots, the two of them: How they had managed to believe their lies and their farce was now beyond her. Nothing had been solved otherwise they would not be standing there, looking at each other accusingly, on the verge of exploding. Wiser versions of themselves doing everything right, sitting somewhere, patiently waiting to find the right words, about to have the most honest conversation in the history of time. Instead they were there! Her thoughts going staccato, panic and paranoia taking over and Fitz! Fitz at the door, his shirt still unbuttoned and droplets of water running down his cheek, his arm half raised as if to stop her.

She had heard his heavy steps in the corridor as he had run to her, painfully aware of having made a mistake. All the while, she could have put down the box and pretend she had not seen its contents but a silent realization had risen in her mind - too tired to pretend, too exhausted to play their usual game, this was the moment they had always run to, fixed and inevitable, pinpointed in time.

"Jemma, wait!" Fitz said, shutting the door behind him. It closed with a thud, the entire room seemed to trembled. "Don't-"

Beside them the bed, still a mess of crumpled sheets. The blue bedspread, that had been ungallantly removed hours earlier, lay on the floor - a soft, light heap of cotton looking like a cloud in the penumbra of the room. How ridiculous it all looked and how ridiculous they looked! Even more now than they had in the aftermath of their lovemaking as they had clung to each other with desperation and need, the sun starting to set and the air getting cooler. Vulnerable, exposed, craving intimacy and any sort of connection. Sex in the hour of need, they had used each other selfishly, fuelling their pretence of unaltered closeness; They had passed the point of no return: sex as a mean to forget the past, the present and the future, a betrayal of what she had always stood for, the one thing she had promised herself never to do. It had changed everything at once, regret hitting them as soon as they had come down from their climaxes. It was all wrong.

Wrong, one word they could agree on settling between them. It had been wrong from the very beginning: They had done things differently, ignored conventions and self-made routines, bypassing their friendship and rules of their own making: He had not asked her about her day, she had not told him. And now, one question she was unable to answer, would she have told him the truth or would she have dismissed the matter with a fine letter word, spat out to create distance and protect herself from further enquiries. The events of the early afternoon still had a surreal and eerie aspect, better not talk about them, better not think about them - her mouth had met his, hesitantly at first and then with more conviction and conference, and a hint of desperation. How to break it to him that she had spent the afternoon in a stinking room listening to two men trying to explain the matter to her as if she were some sort of idiot? Her of all people! With her degree in mathematics and her work in Hut Eight.

It was all coming back now, as vivid as ever. Feelings could no longer be pushed back and ignored, they were resurfacing and clouded her judgement: Years and years of them, like a flood, as if a dam had broken. Her head was pounding and she felt sick, a wave of nausea, her stomach contracting.   

"Too bloody late," she answered sharply.

A rumour concerning possible leaks of information, it had always been there and sometimes she had wondered whether or not it had been released on purpose so as to have them all on their guard. They weren't allowed to trust anyone, to talk to anyone, deep down they had always watched out and been careful, painfully aware of their surroundings and their co-workers, looking out for the smallest of details. Now, all of a sudden, it had gotten out of hand. Police were involved, they had gone so far as telling her that it was common belief that ULTRA secrets were being smuggled out by people who stuffed documents into their pants. She had never stuffed documents into her kickers and most of her skirts didn't even have pockets, she had answered calmly, taking the piss - sarcasm and sneer as immediate and effective way to diminish her fear. They were already interrogating her, things couldn't get worse than that. Her very own consolation prize.

They had caught her in the crossfire and were closing ranks, they'd come for her, it was only a matter of time. Right in the middle, loyal to Fitz and to Bletchley, no longer on anyone's side, not even her own. She had no strength or willingness to fight the situation, turn it to her advantage and defend herself - passive, she had long given up, there was no sense in opposition: The truth would never come up, they'd never realize that they had made fools of themselves by picking her. And now this, Fitz's most prized and secret possessions and she herself a sudden and passive participant in his own private life - she had been catapulted into a situation that escaped her, a situation that made no sense and went beyond Fitz, beyond Bletchley. A bloody mess. She had wanted it to happen for so long, but not like this, never like this, never again. Ignorance, it turned out, had been blissful. Old assumptions, that they had always taken for granted, were no longer standing, leaving them unsettled and lost. Confused.

"What's this?" Jemma asked, letting the tin box fall on the floor with a loud crash. His belongings scattered everywhere, memories of an entire lifetime resting on wooden floorboards. Her fingers trembled.

Distant, almost like an echo, Hunter's voice calling out for Fitz and asking him whether or not he was alright and if he should come upstairs. Fitz shouted back, not breaking eye contact.

They stood there in silence, two dark outlines against the dying glow, the golden evening light filtered through the naked branches of the tree outside his window. Intricate patterns on the white walls of his room. They studied each other wearily with none of the affection of the past, ignoring the mess she had made and ignoring Hunter; Things could go either way: they could end it here or something could be risked and they'd master enough courage to touch all those subjects they had painfully tried to avoid through the years.

"It's not how it looks like," he explained apologetically.

"And how does it look like?"

White rectangular sheets of cheap wartime paper. The size of a postcard, eight inches by ten. Dozens of them. It was the same paper Bletchley used daily and by ton. At the top, on either corner, the time of interception and the frequency on which they had been transmitted - they went back years, 12260 kilocycles per second. Strings of code. Gobbledygook, black on white: It had to be Enigma for it was too similar to some of the codes she had handled herself. Five letters each, not Navy. Akelei had nothing to do with it. Altogether a relief. German Army or Luftwaffe, then. German Army or Luftwaffe? She knew what she was looking at, secret and incriminatory possessions, but what was it? A dare? It seemed impossible, but not as much as the idea of Fitz smuggling them out of Hut Three on purpose.

"I'll tell you what it looks like, Fitz." She paused, taking a deep breath and recollecting her thoughts.

It looked bad. Very bad. And it was too bloody late. Surely he wasn't a German spy, the mere idea was preposterous and insulting! But there were plenty of other countries apart from England and Germany: the enemy of my enemy is my friend, except they weren't friends at all. There was one side to be on and it was England's, the rest didn't matter. What was Fitz thinking he was doing? This was high treason. But if he really was a spy, surely he'd be more clever than hide the papers in his room. But Enigma had nothing to do with him, there was no way to explain it all away other than by assuming that he had stolen her keys to get access to the machines. Broken trust and betrayal.

A car passed by and honked, breaking their silence. Jemma went on, doing her best to mock and mimic the two inspectors that had spoken to her, the archaic and pompous inflection of their voices, and said, "It looks like a security nightmare."

"For heaven's sake, Jemma! You make everything so black and white. It's not."

"This is black and white, Fitz!"

If he loved her, if there still was any kind of lingering affection, he'd go to the Director General and clear her name by telling the truth. Surely the Director General could be trusted, he was, after all, the one person running this circus. Surely Fitz was aware of how things worked at Bletchley: The rumours spread like wildfire and she was stuck in the very middle. This place run on, relying on paranoia, secrecy and on fear of secrets getting out: What if there was going to be another war after this one? Past alliances would cease to matter and Enigma may be used again, Bletchley itself restored. New employers, new employees, it was too risky to have words about this place leaving Buckinghamshire.

"What have you done?"

"What have I done?"

Now, he was actively mocking her and his anger fuelled her own. His words, the inflection of his voice, seemed to imply that there was nothing she could prove: Paper could be burnt and then it would be her words against his. Leopold James Fitz, Alistair Fitz's son, with important connections and powerful friends. And she was what? Disposable, a source of ridicule her entire life on the verge of being ruined forever. Two strangers, as they stood there facing each other.

"What are you going to do, Jemma?" He sounded like his father, his voice completely emptied of emotion. "You've said it yourself, the number of permutations... there are what? Obver a hundred fity million million million possible settings."

"One hundred fifty nine. One five nine with eighteen zeroes behind it."

It was either his sarcasm or his flippancy that gaud her: She would not stand there and listen to him, allowing him to smugly look at her with his mawkish sense of being in the right. She was taking the piss, mocking him, accusing him. Years of repressed feelings coming out at once! If this was the end, she'd challenge him as much as he was challenging her, for it wasn't about the papers, it was about them - all the things that they had tried to ignore. Heartbreak and anger and then free. Free to be their own person. A tantalizing and appealing prospect.

"And so what? What are you going to do next? Pass the codes though the bombes? Oh, I know all about them, _Victory_ and _Agnus Dei._ You'll never find the original settings and even if you did, you'd have to translate the messages. Pray tell, who are you going to drag into this mess?"

His voice dry, cold and matter of factly, marked the ultimate transformation: They was no going back and there they were shaping their lives and destroying each other. She felt tempted to correct him and say that both _Victory_ and _Agnus Dei_ didn't matter, they were a thing of the past. What mattered was the type rather than the name: original standard, jumbo, mammoth, cobra, new standard. It was about showing him that she knew more, that she had been here the longest and that her work as cryptographer was far superior to whatever he spent his days doing.

"I'd find someone."

There were always the authorities, they'd be happy to see those papers! Strings of code, five letters each, German Army or Luftwaffe: They'd jump to conclusions quicker than her. All they wanted was a scapegoat and Fitz could be it! His trips to London and his lies about his trips to Glasgow, those things would be like adding extra fuel to an already existent fire. They were all so eager to show that they had everything under control, the truth didn't matter.

"No, you're going to give them back to me."

An all but irresistible impulse, close to the thrill of self destruction, as she watched Fitz stretch out his hand, ready to take the papers and put them away. He seemed certain that she would give them to him, Jemma Anne Simmons always doing the right thing, following the rules. To hand him the sheets was admitting defeat, stand there and acknowledge that between the saddle and the ground he's swear never to have done a dishonourable action in his life. How could anyone live beside him? He was a fool! There was too much anger, too much flippancy for her too retreat. They had taken it out on her and she was taking it out on Fitz, an infinite circle. This was the moment: They were moving like figures in a quagmire, the only thing that remained was their strength for confrontation. No touching, no openings, their past ceased to matter as the realisation that all those sorry months and years had been nothing but a mimicry of this exact moment. A tidal force, now breaking and exploding.

"Damn you and your stupid secrets!" She yelled, discreetness abandoning her completely.

"My secrets... Those papers-"

"These papers?" She asked, quickly cutting him off and waving the sheets of paper under his nose. He could say whatever he wanted but his secrecy mocked her own advocacy and she was not to be stopped. Her voice a raising crescendo, loud and close to become squeaky. "Are we talking about these bloody papers?"

"Jemma, don't-"

The sound of paper being torn apart sounded louder in the silence. Fitz got pale, an honest reaction and incentive enough to continue. She was hurting him and she would not stop, her fingers ripping the paper apart as she continued to look at him. Small pieces, as small as possible, falling on the floor like snowflakes - white squares resting on the dark timber board: A satisfying sight, the code was unintelligible, good luck to him, putting it back together was probably impossible.

"You arrogant, selfish bastard!" Jemma hit the tin box with her feet, causing it to hit the wall and bent. The sudden noise and movement made Fitz flinch. "You could help. You could come forward and clear this mess, but you won't."

She grabbed her coat and walked past him, his hand on her arm. She snarled, "Get off."

He was silent for a long time, looking at her, puzzled and hurt. They were both certain in their distress that they had used up all possibilities, nothing much remained, not even a glimpse of mutual consolation. An argument like no other, unprecedented and never to be forgotten.

Down the stairs, past Hunter who looked at her bewilderment. The front door opened the moment she went down the last couple of stairs - Fitz's landlady, at least they weren't coming to get her.

"No female company upstairs!"

"I'm leaving!" Shouted Jemma, slamming the door behind her, the whole world trembling. She let out a laugh at the thought of all the times she had sneaked out in the early hours of the morning without having the woman ever guessing a thing - not that it would happen ever again. All she wanted was this wretched war to end and be left alone. Now and forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Loyaulté me lie: loyalty binds me.  
> \- There were spies at Bletchley Park!! John Cairncross was a Soviet double agent, who passed to the Soviet Union the raw Tunny decryptions that influenced the Battle of Kursk. According to Russian archives, between 1941 and 1945, Cairncross supplied the Soviets with 5,832 documents. He was the fifth member of the Cambridge Five and admitted to spying in 1951 after MI5 found papers in Guy Burgess's flat with a handwritten note from him, after Burgess's flight to Moscow.  
> In "The Imitation Game" he is shown as an unwitting double agent being used as a back-channel by MI6 to pass information to the Soviets that Churchill is too cautious to provide, I'm pretty sure there isn't any historical basis for this.  
> \- Victory: the first bombe, installed in March 1940; Agnus Dei or Agnes, the second bombe which incorporated Welchman's new design, was working by August 1940;


	17. Decline and Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1944

 

An issue of a science magazine discarded on a wooden chair, opened in the middle, its reading abruptly interrupted. A precious gift from a friend that lay abandoned in an empty corridor - yellowish wartime paper resting on emerald green velvet. Torn edges and several pieces of paper sticking out of it, notes on the side of every page, written in shorthand. Notes that had nothing to do with the magazine's contents but merely served the purpose of tracking the owner's thoughts lest they slipped away from them, quickly, out of reach, bound to be forgotten. Notes on the side of each page, the magazine looked like an historical artefact, something that belonged to a museum, a medieval manuscript of some sorts, filled with glosses.

Old habits were hard to break. Jemma Simmons's parents had always scolded their daughter for leaving her belonging around the house - newspapers, leaflets, pamphlets, her diary, books - telling her that if  she left her possessions around so carelessly and with such little interest about their future, she mustn't care about them at all and from the very beginning. This, thought Jemma, was only partly true: surely the magazine had been a present, but there were plenty of others lying on her bedside table, a trembling and leaning pile always at risk of falling down. It would make her look stupid if she got up now to pick it up. This former prized possessions, the most stimulating part of her day, had served its purpose: a faithful and distracting companion in her new life that seemed to revolve around making tea for other people, delivering reports and answering phone calls. They could take it if they wanted to, throw it away for all she cared.

A little more that five years since the beginning of world war II: It was slowly coming to an end. At the beginning of November the Allied forces had started to free Antwerp, Operation Infatuate, and twenty seven days later the city had finally started to be a major port supply.

A little more that five years since the beginning of world war II: Little by little Europe was being liberated. At the beginning of December the Allied forces had taken control of Ravenna. Now, the eve of the battle of the Bulge or Ardennes Counteroffensive - bound to become the last major German offensive campaign on the Western Front, an attempt to stop the Allied forces' use of the Belgian port of Antwerp, to split their lines, so as to allow Germany to encircle and destroy the four armies and force the Western Allies to negotiate a peace treaty in the Axis powers' favour.

A little more that five years since the beginning of world war II: Two months since her final argument with Fitz. Complete silence and no apologies.

Three years since her arrival at Bletchley: Her decline and fall at its very best, Hut Eight nothing but a distant memory.

They had not taken her away, a relief all things considered, but she was restless, bored and at wit's end. They were punishing her and she knew it, perhaps they were waiting for her to confess for something she had not done and end this unfortunate business. Jemma Anne Simmons, the ultimate scapegoat.

They had not taken her away, but she often found herself changing her attitude to appear calmer, more disposing, more- innocent.

They had not taken her away but she often found herself panicking or jumping at sudden and unexpected knocks on her door, at people entering a room with too much aim and purpose, and with too much confidence. Checkpoints were the worst, those long and excruciating minutes when her identification documents were being checked: small talk and lingering looks between the soldier made her spiral. The other day she had had the fright of her life as she was walking home with one of her housemates - a skylark lifting itself into the air, her breakfast in her throat and cold! A laugh had been called for, she had not managed to produce one under her friend's inquisitive look.

December. Outside the huts were covered in snow and the pallid winter sun reflected itself on all that whiteness, looking brighter and golden, softening all edges and giving the whole place an eerie and dreamlike look. Icicles hanging from windowsills and drainpipes, frost on all windows, elegant and geometrical pattern that liquefied during the day, leaving nothing but droplets of water in their wake. People walking around all bundled up in their winter coats, scarves around their mouth and nose, and knitted hats on their heads: going on with their day with peace and tranquillity and freedom.

Few people still used their bicycles, Jemma being one of them. Pedalling through the countryside, paying attention so as to stay on the muddy tracks left by the occasional car, with the cold winter wind hitting her cheek, reddening them - a liberating and invigorating experience, a sense of freedom coming from pedalling though the frozen fields and the naked countryside. Part of it all, a feeling that always stopped as soon as she reached work. Bletchley as busy as usual, if not more, and her bored to death sitting at a desk. It was December.

The clock in the corner chimed and then went on relentlessly ticking the time away. Three o'clock, she had been told that Fitz would leave at four if she wanted to do something about it before conversation had moved on to another subject, taking her away from those painful topics she had no desire or strength to discuss; As far as Jemma was concerned, she had told him everything she wanted him to know and his indifference and silence were merely indication of his desire to be left alone.

Jemma looked at the clock again, the black pointers slowly moving on the silver circle. Time hardly ever seemed to pass, hours stretched themselves to infinity and beyond and while she no longer worked endless shifts, hours had never appeared longer. She felt as if she was wasting her time doing a job that gave her no stimulation or personal satisfaction: A war was being fought in the countryside and there she was, not helping at all, completely used and shunned. Now it felt as if there had been a moment when she could have said no, stop all of this from happening, but somehow she had missed it and could not have it back. All that there was, was her friendships with her housemates and some of the wrens she had known from the very beginning, former debutantes who had proven themselves to be quite resourceful, and the feeling of dread that the thought of leaving Bletchley provided. She would not have friends and she would not have Fitz either. Perhaps there wouldn't even be a future: her whole life decided on a roll of a dice.

She'd be alone with her thoughts, nothing to distract her. Not even her precious diary, a diary that no longer read like a history book and was no longer about facts or up to date. No annāles. No chronicles of the twentieth century either. But a detailed record of her own feelings - once on paper she could forget about them and move on. Honest but not so much as to be incriminatory, she hid the wretched thing in an empty box in the kitchen.

An empty corridor, muffled voices from the other side of the door. A horrible and peculiar resemblance to the beginning of her interrogation, except for the absence of that unpleasant smell of mold, the brick walls, and here, at least, she was allowed to sit on her own while she was waiting.

"Cup of tea?" the man at the door asked as he walked in.

Jemma didn't look up. "No, thank you."

He threw the brown folder containing her file on the desk, it landed with a loud thud and opened. Bad memories resurfacing, her heart beating faster. Jemma bit her lip.

"Miss Simmons, can I tell you a secret?"

"I'm quite good with those," she replied matter of factly, a touch of irony. That man knew nothing about her, her work, or about the box in Fitz's room with those codes printed on sheets of paper ten inches by eight.

"I'm here to help you, Miss Simmons."

"Clearly."

She looked up and coughed, closing and releasing her fists - her knuckles turning white, fingernails digging in to her palm, white semicircles on her skin.

"You know why you're here, don't you?"

She nodded and looked away. An uncomfortable position to be put in. After all this time they still insisted on treating her like an idiot - whether it was because of her sex or position she was unsure, though she liked to give them the benefit of the doubt and say it was because of the latter.

"I think I do."

"Good."

This, a decisive moment no matter the outcome. Her life had changed and would change again, she a mere puppet in other people's hands - dancing to whatever tune they sung. It felt now, more than ever, as if she had lost all capacity and all strength for confrontation, a passive participant in her own life. She would not hope, nor would she fight: it was useless and required clarity of purpose that she no longer had.

"We won't restore your position, we can't risk it."

"Too bad," she heard herself say. "Because I'm not a spy."

It was their loss as much as hers - giving her secretarial work didn't bring them any closer to the truth. She wished to know how they all slept at night, knowing that there was no real proof against her. All there was, were malicious voices fuelled by paranoia. Someone and it did not matter who, had pointed the finger at her and poison went where it was welcomed. They could make her prepare all the tea in the world, someone, if there was indeed a someone, still leaked ULTRA documents to Bletchley's enemies.

"We will keep you here doing secretarial work instead of sending you away. For the moment at least."

She remembered her panic all those years ago, at the thought of having to answer calls and make tea. Nothing wrong with clerical work, she knew lots of people who enjoyed it, but she wasn't and would never be one of them: she had  qualifications, a double first! Still, it was better than being locked up and imprisoned

"There's a but coming, isn't it."

"We'll keep you here but we won't clear your name."

"But why?"

"Because one can never be too sure, about this or anything else it seems."

A thought at the back of her mind, inaudible at first and then getting louder and louder, as she watched him take a sip of tea. Who was in control? They were. They were! What a frightful sell to have ever believed otherwise. They still needed her, but there was something more to it - the situation wasn't black and white at all. What a fool she had been to believe differently and what a fool that her life would change for the better for here she was retreating, accepting her fate without a fight. The world had never been at her feet and Bletchley was now at its peak, some ten thousand employees, she was one of many, easily expendable. MI6 and GC&CS didn't need her, she had desperately needed them to prove her worth and give herself some value, and they were now dismissing her and fully in control. Was this going to be the rest of her life?

This, Jemma was sure, was enough proof that society hadn't changed much at all.

This, Jemma was sure, was enough proof that she was a naive idiot like Fitz had always liked to claim. There she sat knowing nothing.

History was unfolding in front of her and her no longer an active participant! A pawn! It was even more unfair than not being allowed to get two more years of university education. What were two years of something as trivial as that compared to a lifetime without any real freedom? With her colours in the mud, no dreams and no pride?

Fear. Panic. Her heartbeat was racing and she felt like exploding as she tried to calm down and take deep breaths. She would not lose it, she would not cry here in front of everyone and declare herself weak and pathetic.

Jemma gulped. "What happens after the war? After Bletchley?"

"We don't know yet. Given the lack of proof... There is a teaching position available in some village in Sussex, near the coast. In August the King gave his royal assent to the Education Act 1944, section thirty six makes parents responsible for their children's education, a better school system and new positions available. We're thinking about offering you the position and send you there. You could go and life your life, be reported on every week. Occasional updates and controls, raids if you like, of course."

A teaching position in a village in Sussex, it was the closest thing to running away from Bletchley that there was. No one would know her there and she could start again, a different life, a better life. Drama would not follow her there, the memory of Fitz distant enough to belong to the past, a foreign country where things were done differently.

A teaching position in a village in Sussex, it would certainly offer a chance to live in peace without triggers. How many people would unexpectedly knock at her door if the number of inhabitants was low? She could live there alone, basking in her regret and her downfall.

"You would have a life."

Call that a life, she wanted to tell him. It was exile, a notion that she had always found very medieval and yet was now being offered to her. And a teacher! She had always insisted on the fact that she would not ever become one, it didn't suit her or the idea she had of herself. And it was better than having to do secretarial work and living a life without any intellectual or personal satisfaction.

"Miss Simmons, we know that you spent months teaching new recruits about Enigma. Some of them spoke very highly of you and your methods. There is nothing wrong with being a teacher."

"There's also nothing wrong with being a secretary or a housewife." She stopped. "It's about..."

"Yes."

"It's a matter of... not all people are suited to do some jobs. What school?"

"An all-girl school, ages twelve to sixteen."

She nodded. Better than nothing. She was atoning sins that weren't hers to atone and would do so for the rest of her life. What a ghastly prospect! A joke! An deep down, the fear of deserving it, of having brought it upon herself: because she hadn't told anyone about Fitz and those papers, because she had destroyed their friendship and had left no space for openings. There she was, for the first time in her life, accepting the consequences of her actions.

"You don't have to give us an answer now, first there's a war to be won. Other priorities." He paused and closed her file, pushing it to the side. "That would be all, you may go now."

Jemma got up, picking up her coat and walking out of the room - her steps on the tiled floor breaking the silence. She closed the door behind her and put on her coat, picking up her science magazine and rolling it up before stuffing it into her coat.

A quarter to four. How different things were from her and Fitz's last parting - his eagerness to walk her to the train station and her own irresistible impulse to kiss him. Some do and some do not, it was still true that they were the sorts that did not. Plenty of time, she thought as she stepped outside in the frozen winter air, but she would not go to the train station to say goodbye.

Fifteen minutes, she would not change her mind even though her mother had always told her that that was what it was for. She would not run after him and wish him good luck with his life, even though they both needed it. She would not try to stop him, certain in her distress that she was about to lose him forever. There was still anger lingering inside her and she could not trust herself with words, better not to see him at all than part with another argument. There he was, going back to London while she stayed at Bletchley to make tea. He had a life and she didn't, it all came down to that.

Fitz would go back to London and one day, perhaps, he'd write that children's book to make children feel less alone - watercolour pictures and his name printed above the title, a small thing, displayed in a couple of bookshops across England and Scotland. Fitz would go back to London to work for his father or back to Glasgow doing God knows what, and she hoped that some nights he'd stay awake and stare at the ceilings while thinking about all the memories and all the moments they had spent together that were now bound to be lost forever. Oblivious to the damage that he had caused with his secrets, unaware of the consequences; Jemma hoped for him to think about his time at Bletchley with regret and to bask in an inevitable feeling of loss.

Meanwhile she would go to Sussex, move to a remote village with her new life and all her fears and resentments.

Meanwhile, at Cambridge, timeless versions of themselves or the memory of those two people, preserved by the ancient university walls that had witnessed their growth.

Good for him, she thought as she entered the cottage, to be able to leave. Good for him to be able to resume when she couldn't. It changed nothing, not this dreadful situation and certainly not her feelings.

Time, the greatest gift of all. She had a lifetime to accept her decline and fall. She would move to Sussex and heal, come to terms with a life that had been imposed on her. She would have the time to break three of all the anger and resentments, all the distress that she had caused and had been caused to her, all the sorrow. She would learn to be on her own and go back to real life when until that moment she had been living in a dream.

And one day, perhaps, they'd see each other again - different, changed, older and wiser - and acknowledge that they had reached the limits without ever trying to prevent it, admit that things had started to go wrong long before she had discovered the papers in his tin box, long before the accusations that had been thrown at her, long before Glasgow.

One day, perhaps, with clearer judgement and finally able to look differently at things, they'd recognize that there had been plenty of pain and drama and horror, but there had been beauty too: happiness, laughter, tender feelings of friendship and blossoming love. And perhaps they would find enough courage reach out and speak those three little words that would never sound outdated or out of place, and would always carry importance: _I am sorry._

To grant forgiveness and apologize, the clock in the kitchen chimed four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Battle of the Bulge, also known as the Ardennes Counteroffensive, took place from 16 December 1944 to 25 January 1945.  
> \- The Education Act 1944 (also known as "Butler Act") made numerous major changes in the provision and governance of secondary schools in England and Wales. It is considered a "triumph for progressive reform," and it became a core element of the post-war consensus supported by all major parties. The Act was repealed in steps with the last parts repealed in 1996.


	18. For Auld Lang Syne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1946

 

London no longer felt like home: It was sudden, unexpected and to a certain degree shocking realization that came upon her as she walked down Horse Guard Avenue, past the War Office, headed to St. James's Park. The city was too cold, insignificant and had lost all its allure: Looking at it now provoked a sense of repulsion and alienation, unprecedented feelings she would have never imagined possible. Jemma had spent most of her life praising the capital and wishing to move there, the city the only place in the world where the hasty rhythm and the chaos of her thoughts were met by something with similar intensity. Now, however, it felt as if life here moved on relentlessly between the oppressing and imposing buildings. People walked too closely, too quickly and there was always someone behind her no matter how many people walked past her or bumped into her - such brief contact always followed by a mumbled string of apologies - it lacked freedom and space, and it made her feel constricted and out of air. Too distracting, too chaotic and way too crowded, it made her feel raw, exposed, vulnerable even, as she walked with aim and purpose, her coat flapping around her legs, overcome by an unshakable and unmistakable feeling of having someone by her shoulder, spying on her every move - a constant and piercing sensation fuelled by her own paranoia, that was driving her mad and made her look guilty and ridiculous every time she turned her head around to see who was behind her.

A bus drove by, leaving behind a trail of exhaust gas - thick and grey, as dark as the clouds in the sky, it lingered in the air before it vanished. There was talk about a possible nationalization of public transport, railway network, long-distance road haulage and other types: The British Transport Commission, the name had quite a ring to it. It was supposed to be in the early stages of its development so as to be ready the following year, the things she learned at her monthly meetings in London. Why people felt the need to discuss such matters with her was beyond her: to make her feel at ease, perhaps, or to soften the blow that came from their ongoing reluctance to change her status and clear her name. Not that it mattered. Either way it was ridiculous for she had as much interest in the upcoming moves of the new labour government lead by Clement Atlee than she had in discussing the weather or listening to the same men, sitting in their fancy offices, telling her that she should consider herself lucky.

The Big Ben chimed. Its sound echoed through the air, loud and clear even though the tower itself was half a mile away and the street was filled with noises, ensuring the passage of time. Earlier than she thought it would be despite the small talk and the infinite delegations: A relief, she'd be out of this wretched and infernal place sooner rather than later. Plenty of time to get to the train station on foot too, thus avoiding a nerve-wracking and anxiety inducing journey on the Tube, get the earlier train and be home for tea. Dinner with some colleagues, she considered buying some flowers though decided otherwise, they'd never survive the train journey.

"I say, Jemma is that you?" said someone behind her.

Loud and clear, it was a well-known voice, familiar down to the accent - that pronunciation so calculated in order not to let harder consonants slip through, that accent that people loved to label as strong and consequentially made fools of themselves by saying something that was quite easily recognizable as untrue. She had dreamt nightly of it, but now it was all sharp edges and real. Real!

She could not do this, the urge to run away was almost overwhelming, but it was too late to pretend that she hadn't heard him or that she didn't know him - her actions, her complete stillness afer having heard him pronounce her name, had already given her away. Slowly, drawing greedily from her cigarette and then exhaling - the white smoke lifting itself into the air in an intricate pattern - she turned around and there he was: Fitz. Fitz! It had to be some sort of cosmic joke, bad humour, because what were the odds? She had no intention to talk to him, not after having spent the afternoon listening to the usual routine - they could not clear her name, they would not stop watching her every move.

Baffled and flabbergasted she studied him: he hadn't changed at all, though his blond hair was shorter on the sides of his head than it was on the top. The stubble was gone too, she preferred him with it, and there he was looking like a polished version of himself. He looked ridiculously well, it suited him. He looked good. Handsome. Exactly how she remembered him.

"Fitz," she said dryly. Words were unreliable, slippery and out of her reach, therefore silence! She looked at the ground and clenched her fists - her palms sweaty, her fingernails digging into her skin, white semicircles on her pink flesh.

"Fancy seeing you here." He paused, looking at her. For a moment they studied each other wearily with care and some of the tenderness that had once been, unsure what to do next. Then Fitz went on and said, "How do you do?"

She shrugged. All she could think of was telling him: you, on the other hand, I cannot forgive. Harsh and angry words, truthful and reflecting her feelings - they'd would be more helpful and honest than any other word or gesture she could come up with.

"You?"

"I can't complain, I guess," he replied.

No, she wanted to tell him, he really couldn't. Because there he was, standing in front of her so in control, so effortlessly; it angered her and her made her jealous at the same time. What was his and everyone else's secret to be able to move on in life without constantly looking at the past? It was a painful matter and everything was uncertain, but there was another realization slowly coming up and getting clearer: she would not have this and didn't have to, no one forced her to be anything more than civil. They would talk, stand in front of each other like strangers, and she would not say anything that he might hold against her. In fact, she would not talk at all, at least not about herself. Equals, nothing could be turned into a rhetorical parry: They would never argue in the middle of the street.

"So," she said. "What do you do nowadays?"

"Translations, mostly. I'm still helping my father."

"He must have been very upset with the outcome of the General Elections, though it was an unexpected landslide victory for Attlee's Labour Party over Churchill's Conservatives."

"It was, but times are changing."

"Not that much."

"He should have seen it coming."

Their voices overlapped, and he finished after her. Sounds completely covered in an indistinguishable mix of sentences articulated with grammatical fashion - the urge to get to the end. She felt the need to prove him wrong.

Fitz paused, looking away, to the street. A group of young boys passed by and laughed, filling their awkward silence. "I'm almost done with Cambridge."

Cambridge, how distant it all appeared. Yonks, lifetimes, whatever. She no longer cared about it, she had a hard time caring about anything at all. How to tell him without sounding like she was lying?

Jemma scoffed. "Good for you."

"It's not the same without you there."

She ignored him. Two possibilities in front of them, equally balanced: to talk as if Bletchley had never happened or to resume from where they had left off? Fitz, it seemed, was choosing the former, but she couldn't no matter how much she put her mind into it. Bletchley had happened, she had called him an arrogant, selfish bastard and stuck with her words. She couldn't pretend because her whole life had been shaped by those last two years spent in Buckinghamshire.

A long silence, her lips pressed together so as not to speak any wryly and unsympathetic words. You, on the other hand, I cannot forgive. Why waste time and tell him anything other than the one thing that mattered?

"Jemma, may I offer you a cup of tea?"

"A cup of tea?"

"Yes. Me and you, maybe we could go somewhere else. Somewhere nice."

This was familiar. Nice. Comforting. They had spent many a thousand afternoons together. Drinking tea and doing their homework. Drinking tea and thinking about a life with him, thinking about kissing him and finally admitting her feelings, escaping the potentialities and the conjunctives. Drinking tea and thinking how much she hated him, how little he thought of her to constantly nag at her with his subtle implications, the precision in all their attacks, the main aim to create more harm than was being done to them. It was solid and already explored territory, they had seen all of it. It would not do. Not now, not in a week, not in a month. They would not go for tea.

"So do you want to?"

"Do I want what?"

Around them the first snowflakes started to fall, white and thick, they melted as soon as they touched the pavement, but the dark and clouded sky promised more. A snowstorm, one of her neighbours had told her, she had to be back before it started - avoid any possible delays or be forced to walk back home in the freezing air, without an umbrella or any appropriate piece of clothing.

"Go for a cup of tea? The two of us could-"

"Fitz," she cut him off abruptly.

All of a sudden she felt as if she had just stepped back into the real world, as if they were holding each other's memories against them. What on earth were they doing? What on earth did he think he was doing? Months without a word, he was taking advantage of the situation and she, for one, would not have it. Quickly old anger and resentments started to resurface, they lingered inside her as he looked at him. Fitz, the one who had gotten away. The best of life indeed.

You, on the other hand, I cannot forgive. Jemma wanted to scream it, her voice getting louder and louder, a crescendo that would echo down the street. Free at last!

They would not go for tea and pretending otherwise was a dangerous matter that would only bring on more heartbreak. They couldn't go for tea because it was an action so simple and so familiar that it required an odd and impromptu restoration of their friendship. It was a game, they both knew it: They'd go for tea and never talk because they would get lost in the inanities and pretend that nothing had changed, that they were still the same two people who had once been friends. The same two people who had once been lovers, the ones who had looked forward to a life together. It wasn't and they weren't, and such a common and trivial proposal implied having discussed their problems and telling him, in not so many words, that she was paying for a crime that she hadn't committed. If they went for tea, there would be no way back: There was no Secrecy Act standing in their way, no loyalties or any other justification. It was like being at Bletchley all over again, but worse.

"I know that you and everyone else wants me to say that I've changed-"

"That's not-"

"That this bloody business made me realize a thing or two, that I've learned something in the past couple of years." She started. Oh the things she had learned, she could list them now, one after the other: not to trust anyone, that people were selfish, happiness could turn into fire and anguish. It took such courage when you were hurt, and there he was.

Christ, she wanted to scream at him. She didn't, instead she went on and said, "This is who I am!"

Embittered, resentful, holding grudges. Time hadn't healed a thing.

"But you-" She stopped. Bastard! The word was already on the tip of her tongue, ready to come out, followed by plenty of sentences that she was ready to pour out in a grammatical fashion. She could almost imagine herself doing it. Arrogant and selfish, he was far worse than her, standing there and pretending that nothing had happened, as if her ruin and punishment could not have easily been avoided. It was his fault. His fault! He had crossed the line.

"You!" She stopped, it was none of his business. He had no entitlement to her life and couldn't just ask her out for tea so effortlessly, so easily, while she was trying to rebuild her life and find her place in the world. "I can't."

She couldn't because if she were to lift her heel, if she followed him to get a cup of tea somewhere else, somewhere nice, they'd never make it out alive. It would destroy them and there would be no going back, it would be like reaching the limits and once they did what would remain? Hurt, tons of it, just now that she had started to learn how to make friends and trust people. It had taken her such courage!

"I can't. I can't because I'm meeting someone for dinner and I have to go back now."

"Oh." He looked at her with his mouth half opened in bewilderment. And he looked what? Disappointed? Jealous? Jemma felt no need to correct him, he could think of her whatever he wanted.

"So there's that."

One of her former housemates had come for tea once and asked about Fitz, saying that their bond had always looked unbreakable, a force to be reckoned with. And if a former house mate knew more about her and Fitz than they did, it had to mean something. Now, those who passed by them would never be able to guess that her and Fitz, as they stood next to each, walking awkwardly and in silence, volcanoes inside them and polished surfaces, had once been friends. Or lovers. Or that Jemma had once crossed the countryside in the Spring's dusk while she thought about telling Fitz that she loved him. Strangers the two of them, if there was love or even friendship, it was buried beyond their reach.

"Well then." He stopped and fidget with his hands. "May I give you my telephone number? You can throw it away or call me whenever you want in case you change your mind. Someone quite clever once told me that that is what it's for."

"Alright, you may do that," she replied dryly.

Fitz nodded and took a notebook out of his coat, a pen soon followed, and then ripped out one of the pages and scribbled a series of numbers on it. She watched his careful and precise movements thinking: you, on the other hand, I cannot forgive. One number after the other, written down in his elegant and neat handwriting - mathematical precision in all of his smooth movements. He handed her the piece of paper and she took it, their fingers touching for a split of a second.

"But I warn you," she said. "It will take some time. I don't have a telephone yet."

He let out a laugh, a guttural sound, half a snort, as if he thought she was lying. It didn't matter, she could have come up with any excuse and all of them would sound more real and plausible than the truth. She felt the strong urge to prove him wrong.

"To cut a long story short, my landlady moved out and took the telephone with her, so I've still got to figure that one out. There's been more urgent matters to attend to, I don't need a telephone, people who want to talk to me know very well where I live. Or work." She paused. "But I promise you that one day, when I'm ready, I'll call you even if it's just to say..."

You, on the other hand, I cannot forgive.

"Never mind," she added, looking at her watch. "I've really got to go."

"It was lovely to see you." He stopped, his voice full of hesitation as he added, "Is it always going to be like this? Between us?"

The look on his face, unprecedented. Deep down, somewhere, the awareness, like some universal truth, that it was slipping away from them. Things were changing, their relationship elusive yet again. There was no going back to it, not now, they had been too slow and had not taken advantage of the moment. It was over. Now, there was no way, no other possibility than going their separate ways - back to Sussex, away from him while he did whatever he did with his afternoons. It was the same old story, a perfect and well practiced routine, the gap between them was getting wider and wider, distancing them, and there they stood huddled in their separate losses, with no desire to open up and explain. No more room for dialogue - textbook, old and tested, as familiar as the afternoons spent taking tea.

"Yes." She heard herself say. "It will always to be like this. Something happened, we've got to live with it."

"Move on?"

"Is that even possible?" She paused. Did she want to move on? She couldn't tell. Admitting that she missed him and their friendship, all the good things that had occurred between them, required too much clarity, confidence and courage. It was uncertainty at its very best, she might as well be influenced by the lack of stability in her life. She went on and said, "Do we want to do that?"

"You'll get in touch then."

She nodded. "Yes."

"Good."

"And Fitz?"

"What?"

"Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Jemma."

She smiled and he smiled back - softly, warmly, with a hint of tenderness - without speaking a word. Then, just like that, they turned around and parted, walking in opposite directions. For a moment she considered turning around and watch him go, his figure getting smaller and smaller, but it felt like admitting that there was indeed an opening, space for dialogue and future possibilities, a scary and overwhelming thought. Instead, she kept walking on, her breath forming small clouds of condensations, past St. James's Park, up Whitehall, while the January snow faintly fell and covered the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The 1945 United Kingdom general election was held on 5 July 1945, with polls in some constituencies delayed until 12 July and in Nelson and Colne until 19 July, because of local wakes week. The results were counted and declared on 26 July. The GE had notable landslide election results: Labour won 393 seats (an increase of 239) while the Conservative Party were left with 197 (a decrease of 190). The swing from the Conservative Party to the Labour Party remains the largest ever achieved in a British general election.  
> \- Transportation Act was intended to bring about some stability in transport policy.  
> Royal assent: 6 August 1947  
> Commencement: 1 January 1948  
> Repealed: 1 January 1963  
> In Northern Ireland, the Ulster Transport Authority acted in a similar manner.


	19. Home Fires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1946

 

Late August, summer was slowly coming to an end: The days were starting to get shorter and fresher, gone was the ghastly and novel-like heat and the laziness that came with it - at last! Now, the village seemed to burst with energy of the contagious and overwhelming kind: Children were allowed to play outside and their laughter lifted itself into the air and echoed down the streets - invigorating and hopeful, it was the sound of new beginning, of innocence and hope, of changing times. Soon enough the weather would change once more and become cold and rainy with the occasional storm: The change had been announced by the weather forecasts and although their predictions hardly ever came true, the information spread like wildfire, passed on between strangers, friends and family alike. There seemed to be no doubt, September would bring bad weather and accuracy was irrelevant: some said in a week, some in a fortnight, some at the end of the months with the beginning of Autumn - the beginning of such an annual and well-known cycle depended on the person who was discussing the piece of information and numbers had more to do with emphasis rather than mathematical precision.

It was a familiar and well practiced routine for every mention of the upcoming season merely served as a reminder of all the things that had still to be done. But it was the children who always seemed to show the most enthusiasm for soon enough they would be allowed to go out with their rain boots and run, nay jump, from one puddle to the next, splashing water and mud onto the pavements and the gravel roads. A special kind of delight and joy for Autumn also meant crispy air and fresh and crunchy apples and the promise of cake accompanying afternoon tea. The beginning of Autumn, everyone seemed to look forward to it.

Late August, summer had yet to end. It didn't matter how much people talked and anticipated the beginning of September, the days were still warm and the only drastic drop of temperatures occurred at night and in the early hours of the morning. Then, like a constant and punctual foreshadowing of what was going to happen next, a jumper was required on top of lighter summer clothing, both inside and outside the house.

A soft breeze was blowing through the streets and the gardens: It came from the sea and carried the smell of salt and seaweed, a peculiar and poignant smell that impregnated the air and from which there was no escape. It was a fresh smell, a lively smell, the smell of home. Leaves were rustling and rattling, making a similar noise to the waves that crashed against the white cliffs, and the branches of trees moved ever so slightly in the pallid glow of the evening. Birds, sitting on gutters or amidst all that foliage, chirped happily and were indistinct figures, half hidden and black dots against the sky that was slowly getting darker - the last streaks of orange, yellow and red barely visible and slowly fading away. Out of sight like the rest of the world, their presence betrayed by their voices and by the flapping of their wings as they lifted themselves into the air and flew away, back to their nests or spots of dense vegetation. It was nature at its very best.

Barely audible, coming from one of the houses next to hers, a record player: opera, by the sound of it, or some show that flopped. The sound of it added up to the gentle and pleasant cacophony of sounds that fuelled a comforting awareness of not being alone. Light and relaxing, it was the sound of late summer evening, the sound of a world ready to go to sleep, the sound of bedtime stories and cuddles on the sofa, long days finally coming to an end. But it was also the sound of a day that had yet to end, of people who wanted their time together to last a little while longer instead of having it end abruptly after dinner. It was time for silence too so as not interrupt the grounding stillness that was slowly starting to settle down.

Jemma was sitting on the old, ruined, wooden bench in her garden, looking at the small spot of green behind her house. Recently cut grass, flowers, and the smell of rosemary and lavender - the scent filled her nostrils. Strains of hair had escaped her hairdo and were now dancing around her face, moved by the wind, framing it. A dishevelled look she didn't bother to fix, no one could see her and it hardly mattered for pushing it behind her ears or tying it up again was entirely useless, it would not do.

Was this what people meant by peaceful? She couldn't tell, it was all new to her and she had yet to discover all those things that most people took for granted. But it had to be, for this feeling of stillness that she had just recently discovered, filled her with a sense of belonging and a sense of home. No longer restless, she was at peace with the place and with herself, and she could imagine the rest of her life spent just like that - in a small village, where people knew each other by name, away from everything and everyone, away from the past. Outside time and space, with the world around her ready to go to sleep, it all looked unchanged and everlasting, like something out of a children's book - soft , idyllic, pastoral. She liked this moment of the day best, when she was able to spend some time alone, her thoughts not bothering her, and all the world - quiet. Sitting in her favourite spot of the house, a glass of whiskey in her hand and a book at hand's reach, in complete solitude: so awake and so, so alive, her heart beating and her mind quiet. This, she was sure, was life and the moment she had always walked to: she could be herself and this remote spot in the south east of England, the spot itself the centre of the universe. Here, now, her previous life was nothing but a distant past even though it was the more unforgotten. All of it - Sheffield, Cambridge, Bletchley - hard to imagine that such a past had once belonged to her.

Peace and serenity, tranquillity and stillness: That was the place, that was the evening, that was her life. Nothing much happening at all. This place, Jemma was sure, was benevolent: She liked it and it liked her, it suited her and granted her the long anticipated chance to finally be able to forget herself, be herself, explore herself and grow. This life made her monthly trips to London and the weekly reports irrelevant, it made them fade into the background and allowed her not to think or pay attention to them. Here her life had stopped being a long string of possibilities, here it was no longer put on hold until some man in a suit decided it was time. Here there was a future to explore and she had as many chances as everyone else. The pale and ceasing conditional that bound her to two places at once were slowly wearing thin; The idea of such change had once been an alluring and tantalizing view, but now it was part of a well-known routine as much as pedalling to work and enter a classroom were. Reinforced once a month, she had learned to ignore it and start a whole new life.

A whole new life! Every day she woke up and the memories of Cambridge, Bletchley and Fitz lost their sharpness. She was telling lies, of course, big fat lies, for she remembered everything and had so many memories she wanted to forget, even the good ones; Especially the good ones who always seemed to look at her accusingly. But no one asked her anything about it which was the closest thing to being able to forget. The war, Jemma had soon discovered, was a horror people just wanted to forget - silence merely sped up the process and helped people to move on. A whole new life where she could be herself, lay back and enjoy life, live without having to provide any explanation. Jemma Anne Simmons from Sheffield with a Cambridge education, and a letter of recommendations that said she had done enhanced secretarial work during the war. A teacher.

Jemma stretched out her hand, grasping for the book that was lying on the windowsill, the sleeves of her jumper, already too large for her, slid down her arm and left her skin exposed to the fresh evening air, only to change her mind. Above her the sky was now completely dark: stars, perfectly visible, and the full moon shining brightly, its silver light illuminating the surroundings.

A whole new like! She rather enjoyed it even though it had taken her months to get used to it - sorry days and weeks during which her resentment and sorrow had had time to fade. She enjoyed the sense of community that everyone shared, it made her feel like home. Home, why be anywhere else? And the sense of safety and familiarity, here she was alone, here she was surrounded by people who knew her by name. She appreciated the older women, always ready to speak their minds and provide people with advice, and felt included during their weekly meetings at the women's institute.

That very morning she had helped the school mistress, a lively and elderly lady, make marmalade. Quite an event, almost a party. They had spent the morning picking up blackberries, starting out early, surrounded by fog as they had walked down the gravel roads under a clouded sky. Quite an experience, a very satisfying one, that had freed her from the remaining desire to be left alone. She was under surveillance, this was a punishment, but she could have a life so why not choose this one? Why not enjoy herself?

A whole new life! Her work as a teacher was more satisfying and less belittling than she had imagined. The girls she taught were smart, bright young things, eager to learn new things and always curious about life - they reminded Jemma of herself at that age. One of them had stopped to thank her for all she had done and Jemma had almost cry, feeling genuinely touched, such a casual remark had shown her that there were different ways to help people, different ways with which one could make a difference. Exciting new times. Sometimes it was mathematics, sometimes it was life lessons. Part of her found it hilarious that they came to her, when she had failed so miserably at it, when everyone seemed to have a better grasp on things, more focused and confident that she could ever be. There she was, older but none the wiser. Plenty of mistakes weighting her down, she had to face them every day lacking the means to do things differently. To go back and look at it differently, not taking things for granted. The devil was in the detail, that, perhaps, was the greatest lesson of all.

Do you have a sweetheart, Miss? one of the girls had asked her. Voices echoing in her memory as she took the glass of whiskey in her hand. Memories, they washed over her, the more unforgotten and as sharp as ever. Fresh, living in her mind.

Did she have a sweetheart? No. She used to. Her and Fitz had had everything. Her and Fitz had nearly had everything. But that was a past she hardly ever thought about, it hurt less that way.

Fitz. Why did he have to come back and say hello, why not just walk on and go on with his life like all the people around them? Why wake her up, why stand there making it obvious to the two of them how much they had in fact lost? And so easily as if it didn't pain him at all to look at her and think about all that they had had, about all the things that now were lost. Why did he have to give her hope. Perhaps it was all people had, hope for a better future, hope to do things differently and try their best after the horror of the past ten years. Why not leap, jump into it and live. Live! Why give her his phone number with such hesitance that for a moment it had felt as if the old Fitz was standing in front of her, as if he had thought about her too in the early hours of the night grieving a relationship that had once been central to their lives and important - the whole world revolving around it, a microcosm of itself.

She hadn't changed at all, time hadn't healed a thing. She was embittered and held grudges, had a hard time to trust people because God knew if they all seemed to hold the keys to her own destruction. Sorry months and years, Fitz had once called it a loop and there she was at the very heart of it; Part of it she had done to herself. And yet, if she had the chance to rewind time and re-enter that moment - herself sitting in that room that smelled of mould, her stomach tied in a knot and panic! Cold! - she wouldn't do anything different. They had offered her a lawyer, London Calling, the BBC World Service's station identification: "This is London calling ...", which was used during the war, often in broadcasts to occupied countries, via a telephone in case she got tired of playing the martyr and thought about fighting back. To double check! To find a solution that would somehow suit both parties. To live! She wouldn't do anything different, Fitz might even call it playing the victim.

Fitz. How to grant forgiveness when there still were so many secrets standing in the way? She couldn't and wouldn't ignore them, it was impossible, they had caused too much anguish. But there was something else amidst all the negative feelings, a half forgotten truth that she had done her best to ignore and that was that she missed him. She missed him. An odd and strange feeling that got the more intense now that she had seen him again. She knew what she had lost and she wanted it back, she was different not - older, able to look at things differently, she had changed and barely recognized herself as a person. Mistakes were obvious now, scattered through the years: It was easy to point fingers and throw accusations around, but they were both to blame. They both had to take responsibility.

One of the village girls was about to get married, the first since the end of the war, and everyone seemed to be delighted and ecstatic at the thought of it. Was there anything better than a wedding to show that it was all over? That this was a time of healing? And they were, they were all healing from the wounds inflicted by the past, moving on with their lives without looking back. Why couldn't she find the same clarity, use the same mental trick as everyone else? What was the secret, what was everyone's secret that allowed them to move on? They were all so eager, so capable! While she with her Cambridge education was stuck between the past and the present, out of this world, out of time and space, moving like in a quagmire.

Tears prickled in her eyes, Jemma wiped them away.

Fitz. What did he do nowadays? Whatever it was, they were still the same, trying to move on without discussing their problems or their history, and too afraid of the consequences. Had he really not learned the lesson the first time around? Did she care? Yes. No. No. Yes! Part of her at least, the small part of her that couldn't let him go, the small part that cared too much about him and the past. She could never live with the same easiness as him, it all mattered too much. And yet he had clearly resumed with his life so why couldn't she? Why on earth couldn't she resume just like everyone else. The thought made her want to scream as loud as she could, on the top of her lungs, from one of the cliffs, her voice mixing with the squeals of the seagull flying in the air on top of her, through the clear blue sky.

She raised her glass into the hair, a silent and private toast to an imaginary audience, to herself, to memories that could never be forgotten, and drank from the ember liquid with a fruity aftertaste, her head tilted back towards the starry sky and the full moon and its silver light. Then she got up, walking with purpose across the grass and inside the house, through the kitchen and into the small living room, on one of the shelves Fitz's telephone number.

Fitz. She was tired of living in the past, surrounded by ghosts. Tired of being angry. Tired of being alone, a self inflicted situation. Perhaps, she should have followed him for that cup of tea, ignoring the snow, giving the dinner party a miss. Perhaps, she should have suggested to go somewhere private or really tell him that she couldn't find the strength to forgive him, not without having heard his story. He had asked her to go and drink a cup of tea and she had said no, she couldn't go - that she did not regret and never would. But perhaps, perhaps, to go out another time and explain things, request an explanation and an apology, to see if it had all been worth it. Not tea and certainly not in the middle of a crowded street just as snow was starting to faintly fall and cover the ground, somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

Nights, it seemed, were the right time for bad decisions.

She went to the phone, picking the speaker up and holding against her ear - her fingers dialling the number.

A crackling over the line, a static sound, loud and unpleasant, followed by a firm, familiar voice.

"Leopold James Fitz speaking."

"It's me. Jemma."

"Jemma?"

"Jemma Simmons? How many Jemma-s do you know anyway?"

"No, I mean, what time is it?"

He sounded upset, she didn't care. He had ruined her life and deserved it. After all she was the one who had gotten the short end of the stick, this was the least that could happen to him. Had he himself not told her that she could always call him whenever she wanted?

"Too late for a phone call, apparently." She paused. "Listen-"

"No, no, there really is no need to-"

She heard him scream something at someone, background noise and indistinctive words.

"If this isn't the right time..."

"No, it's just Hunter."

For a moment she thought about asking him about Hunter, deviate conversation and pretend that they could still do this: be able to speak to each other about anything and with the same amount of fluency and without effort. But what good would it do? It would distract her and perhaps they'd end up talking about things that had no relevance at all. That could always be done in future. No, they needed to discuss all those subjects they had spent years trying to avoid: It was the only way out.

"So, what's this all about?"

"I've been thinking about what you said- we need to talk."

"So let's talk."

Not like this. Never like this.

It felt as if they were preparing for war. It had to be quick, cold, detached. Precision in their plans and in their words, it could not be done over the phone. It had to be close up and personal, they had to sit down in front of each other, secrets revealed at last. It couldn't be done over the phone. Somewhere safe, home, where she felt at ease and could be herself, this new self she rather liked, where her new life backed her up. It was something to rely on in case things went badly. Sussex, they had to meet in Sussex. She was the one who had suffered the most while he had managed to get away - unaffected and without looking back. It was her right to have him there. It was her right to choose the right place for their final confrontation. Her home, her rules. She needed to know that in a worst case scenario, she could just go in while he went home.

"I say, can we meet?"


	20. Married Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1947

 

The rain was still coming down, albeit not in buckets like that morning. Far away, over the sea, the first spots of blue sky and the first shy sunbeams and the wind getting slower and slower, losing intensity and force with every minute that passed. A soft breeze that would help transport the dark clouds away, past the village, inland: sunshine returning at last. A clear day, a sunny day, with the air filled with the smell of petrichor and flowers. The smell of spring and the smell of hope, of life, and rebirth. A bright and shiny future, luminous, happy, the whole world would look different - sharper, realer, less threatening and more welcoming. A future that liked them and liked itself. A future where all was possible.

Around lunchtime the storm had still been in the midst of breaking out in all its intensity and violence: Thunder, lighting and wind. Wind howling through the buildings, louder and louder, the waves hitting violently against the white cliffs - motion, dynamicity, nature in all its power. It had been an excellent idea not to meet for lunch for she could see him now, as he stood at her door, with his damp clothes and black umbrella, and imagine him looking worse - pitch wet, his clothes sticking to his skin and his hair flattened. Then what? She could hardly send him away looking like that. He'd catch pneumonia and the blame would be hers. But he couldn't stay either for people would talk and then what? Shunned. Gossip, spreading like wildfire. All for what?

"My goodness, what happened to you?" she asked as she studied him with care and ease.

There at last! Fitz, standing at her door and covered in mud. Damp clothes and dark stains, he looked like the village - wet and made out of mud, raindrops running down his skin There at last! She hadn't managed to do much that morning, keeping herself busy as she patiently waited for his arrival, unsuccessfully - she had read the same sentence for ten minutes only to give up. He and their imminent encounter all she could think of as the clock had ticked the time away, each second separated from the next by an eternity. But there he was, at last! And it felt good to see him there, to have him there, to have invited him for tea and a long needed conversation. Here, in this place, home and there, in front of her, Fitz, who had once been home too: different worlds colliding and herself placed right in the middle of it. It was or felt like a good beginning.

"I swear when I left London I was dry and spotless. You never said there would be mud," said Fitz as he vaguely gestured at his dirty clothes and at the street behind him, his gaze never leaving her.

He was putting some effort into it, that much was clear, hesitance in the articulation of every word and in every action, they required clarity and courage and this levity, this playfulness, this teasing banter, to compensate for everything else: the past, a world in mourning all around them, grief caused by a broken relationship. Vulnerable, he looked vulnerable, and insecure - so similar to the Fitz she had first met. His confidence, the one he had displayed the previous years, wasn't there at all - overshadowed by everything else on this the moment they had always moved to. Finally they were equals, an awareness that helped them both to feel at ease granting the possibility to rebuild their relationship or at least be friendly and not just civil. It was a good start, by all means, this second chance - nothing better to ask for, natural, infinite, bound to last forever.

"I thought it would be obvious given the bad weather. I said, and I quote myself verbatim, that we had a week of rain and storms and therefore you should dress accordingly." She paused. "Five years at Cambridge and you still weren't able to figure that one out. Some things hardly change, that is to say I'm clearly the smartest one here."

"Oh, ha ha ha! Hilarious," he replied, genuinely entertained.

A laugh felt called for and they managed it, sounding less forced than expected. It was good, felt good, laughing at themselves and relying on the same old humour, relying on their long gone competition, and their need to prove themselves to be the best.

"Shoes off here?"

"Most definitely. I can lend you a pair of woollen socks if you want."

"No, it's alright," he reassured her before he carefully placed his shoes in a corner next to the door.

Fitz walked inside, entering the small hallway, and she closed the door behind him. Outside, some laughter and bickering, children's voices reaching them, but the rest was silence. No one to judge, to look at their movements. No one to judge, not even the ghosts of their past selves. They were free. Free to do as they pleased. Free to explore all possibilities. Free to finally discuss those painful matters they had spent years trying to avoid. Free of all their uncertainty, there would be none by the end of the afternoon: Questions and answers, all in good time.

"If you take your clothes off, I can let them dry. You can use my dressing gown."

"Which fortunately used to be my dressing gown. What?"

"You never asked it back."

"You never gave me the chance."

"Strip."

She left him standing in the corridor and walked to her room, to the wardrobe, taking out the old and worn dressing gown that many years ago had smelled so much like Fitz. His voice, loud and clear, reached her "It's nice here. It's lovely."

"It's home. I like it," she replied, walking back to him and handing him the piece of clothing.

Out of his clothes, into the dressing gown - one arm and then the next - swift, slow and precise movements. Then, he leaned against the doorframe, his head tilted to the side as he watched her hang up his clothes - his eyes on her, never leaving her, she could feel it. Being watched, such a familiar sensation, but this was different: not at all violating and panic inducing, welcomed, a witness to her everyday life. They could have had this.

"You look nice by the way. You look well."

"Well?"

"Lovely," said Fitz. "I'm sorry that I didn't come sooner. I was abroad and-"

"It doesn't matter."

"I guess not."

"We're here now."

"Right." He stopped and smiled, the corners of his mouth slowly raising. He looked sheepish, shy, so much like the boy she had once met. Somewhere, deep inside, they both were those two people - unchanged, eager to impress, to do the right thing, desperately wishing to be noticed, to become friends with the one person that mattered. "Beautiful is the word I was looking for. You look beautiful."

She shrugged. "Thank you. You don't look too bad yourself."

"Are you alright?" He paused, looking away. "I mean, are you really alright?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. I'm doing better, I'm doing well, no longer just making ends meet. I've resumed."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"How do you do?"

"Well. As soon as I'm done with Cambridge, I'll stop working for my father. It won't be long now, the end of the year, probably. Then back to Glasgow."

"You should tell me, we could go out for a drink. Celebrate." She paused. "You'll be granted the honour to be a fellow, of that I'm sure. And I will be able to say that I know the brilliant Leopold James Fitz."

"Why do you always plan to use me as an excuse to boast. Boast about your own achievements, you said it yourself not ten minutes ago: You're clearly the smartest one."

"So you admit it?" she teased him, raising an eyebrow. "That I'm the smartest. Because if you do, rest assured that I'll tell everyone."

"You should have it printed on all newspapers. Groundbreaking results, Jemma Anne Simmons is smarter than Leopold James Fitz. Lifelong rivalry settled at last."

"I should definitely do that. I'll start by telling it to all the sheep and cows that can be found around here."

"I'm sure they'll be happy, if not delighted, to hear it. You know them better, they're all on your side. I passed by and they just looked at me with their big, brown eyes. Unimpressed, they were completely unimpressed."

They laughed and she stepped closer to him, with precision and confidence, brushing his hair to the side.

"How on earth did you manage to get covered in mud?"

"I fell. Slipped. I slipped. At the of the road where the station is, there's-"

"That's on the left, Fitz."

"Yeah. I realized my mistake as soon as I was on the ground, mud all around me. I had to ask for directions."

"Oh, Fitz!"

"But you were right, everyone here knows who you are."

"You thought I was lying to you?"

"I thought you were exaggerating."

"Fitz," she said. "There's five people living in this place. Two of them are my neighbours, one of them is my landlady."

"Oh, come on, I've counted at least ten."

"There's no need to exaggerate."

"There clearly is." He laughed.

Her hand on his cheek, his hand on hers. Then, everything was different: changed and irrevocably so. There was no going back. Serious, hone were the jokes as they stood there, staring longingly at each other, their eyes wandering down and up again. An all but irresistible impulse, to kiss him, overwhelming her as old and familiar feelings washed over her. Tenderness, she would have never imagined it coming back, not with such gravity and intensity. No levity at all and one doubt, almost excruciating: what if he had someone else? A sweetheart? Surely he would have told her over the phone or included such a ghost of a person into his plans for the future. They were at an age when such things mattered and bore importance.

"It's good to see you, I mean it."

He kissed her palm, his lips lingering on her skin. Tentatively, in exploration.

"Fitz-" His name sounded different now as she articulated it, same letters with different meaning. She leaned forward, gently, taking her time, leaving enough space to get out of it. It was still possible to say: we shouldn't be doing this. We really shouldn't be doing this. I don't want to. Let's talk.

"I've missed you," she whispered. "I've missed us."

Honesty, or the beginning of it. It felt good to say such words out loud, a hidden truth she had hardly ever admitted to herself. Now, irrevocably spoken, it could not be taken back. Behind all the sorrow and the anger, during those long and sorry years, there had been the awareness of a loss that went beyond their romantic relationship. Their friendship, scattered. Fitz, far away, distant. And that feeling of need to tell him something, some anecdote, him the first person she'd turn to. Sometimes, even now, looking back, it felt as if beside her had always been an empty space for him to settle - inevitable and right.

She pressed his lips on his, a lingering and soft touch, before she moved away. Their foreheads were touching, little to no space between them.

"Jemma-"

And then they kissed. Tentatively at first, languidly. It was them trying to get reacquainted with familiar feelings: His arms around her, holding her close, her hands cupping his cheek, his stubble ticklish under her fingertips, bodies pressed together - inevitably right despite everything that had happened, as if time had always led them to this. This! How to let it go when it was slowly coming back, they had been fools to think that they could somehow forget about all of this, pretend it would not resurface. To talk, later. They had an entire afternoon at their disposal, time was on their side and they could use it however they wanted. This! The beginning and the end, lines and boundaries blurring as they got lots in the other's touch. There was no way to do it right, no text-book procedure to follow in order to regain their friendship and Fitz's presence in her life. It was instinct. It had to do.

The moan at the back of his throat marked the ultimate transformation as they clumsily stumbled towards the bedroom, down the corridor, past some framed landscape paintings, to the door. Stopping on the way - her back against the wall and hands everywhere, fumbling, clothes ungallantly discarded on the floor.

"French letters?" asked Fitz between kisses, breathless, as they entered the room. Hungry, eager and aroused, each second spend talking was time wasted, time that ticked away from them and which they wouldn't get back.

"No need," she replied. "I've got a Dutch cap on."

There was a certain amount of careful and attentive planning behind this. At the back of her mind, ever since her phone call in the late hours of the evening, the thought, nay the awareness, of possible sexual intercourse. To be prepared for she knew herself and she knew Fitz even better, they'd reach for it, try it out, their last hours together as clear in her mind as ever: The need to feel close, the need for intimacy. A Dutch cap, better than keeping French Letters - avoid confusion, avoid distraction. She had led him to believe that there had been someone, that vague inflection of her words, and wanted to avoid any doubt - it was neither a momentary distraction nor a game of second bests. There had only ever been Fitz.

"Dutch cap?"

"Fitz, shut up." She paused, interrupting all her movements at once. "Do you want to do this?"

He nodded. "Yes, I thought- it seemed quite obvious. Do you?"

"Yes."

Fitz kissed her again, taking his time.

The door closed with a soft thud as the latch bolt fell into place as she led him to the bed.

The rain hit softly against the window, a continuous and rhythmical sound, relaxing and peaceful, the world washed clean. Softer and softer, not as intense, not as regular until it stopped altogether and stillness and silence filled the air  - the first birds lifting themselves into air, black and small figures passing by, against the blue, cloudless sky. The sun shyly coming out, the weather forecast coming true at last, spring rain finally over, the light reflected on the dusty and calm surfaces of the puddles that starred the street: The air appeared luminous and the world made of light - bright and intense after a week of bad weather. A spider web with many a thousand droplets of water on it, in a corner outside the window, the spider itself not to be seen. The first sunshine shining over them, through the disclosed curtains, golden patterns on white walls and dark furniture, motes of dust dancing under it relentlessly, tiresomely and bewitchingly. White linen and their naked skin.

Love and hope, primordial instincts and long forgotten feelings enhanced by physical closeness. For a while they lied apart until Fitz turned around and shifted his body closer to hers, his arm carelessly resting on her stomach holding her close - a light and gentle touch. This, all of this, had once been home.

"The other day," said Jemma. "The other day one of the girls at school had Marie Stopes's Married Love in her suitcase."

"Did she get into trouble?"

"No. I think it was all of them, bought together or something like that. Still, we managed to convince our superiors not to take it to the school mistress."

"How did you manage to do that?"

"By saying that these girls are girls who want to get married. Unhappiness is caused by ignorance, let them have a good start."

"I guess you're right, ignorance does cause unhappiness." He stopped and kissed her shoulder. "They're lucky to have you as their teacher. I'm sure you're doing great."

"Oh, I don't know. I guess it depends on what you mean by teaching. Mathematics, excellent. Life lessons and advice, not so much. But I do want them to have a good life, be bold. Brave. Defy expectations. They are, after all, the future."

"Jemma?"

"What?"

"Do you know that I've been here for almost two hours and you haven't even offered me as much as a cup of tea?"

She laughed, her entire body shaking, and her face hidden by the pillow. "Why are you so obsessed with tea, Fitz?"

"It's nice. It's lovely. To sit there and... Oh bugger, I need the loo and don't want to move just yet." He stopped and pushed himself up. "Bugger."

Jemma watched him as he picked up his dressing gown and walked out of the room, and then curled under the covers - safe, warm, a world of its own. Hiding. from the truth and the possibilities that were now stretching themselves in front of them, a forked path, the lingering before them sweet. To go on like this, lie there a moment longer, outside time as they enjoyed each other's company and silence, or to finally talk and face the truth. Either way, this was the last chance to gather her thoughts and make sense of them.

"You know," said Fitz as he walked back, his steps heavy on the floor. "I never thought you'd move to such a godforsaken place. No, not godforsaken... quiet and isolated place."

His voice sounded patronizing and changed everything. Jemma felt the awkwardness rising, surprisingly, for she had imagined it as a consequence of putting their clothes back on, but there they were: her lying on the bed and Fitz looking at her from the door. Perhaps the sex had been a mistake, perhaps didn't know each other at all. His words were ludicrous, almost playful, and seemed to bear no malice or accusations. A fright full sell, all of it. Suddenly, she felt angry at herself for she should have told him the truth, they should have told each other the truth much sooner. At Bletchley. A simple remark. Perhaps he didn't know about anything that had happened to her, perhaps he didn't care to know or pretended not to know - infinite possibilities. It was none of his business, she wanted to tell him, to talk about and judge her for her life in Sussex when she could consider herself lucky to even have a life. And what did he know? This place suited her more than any other spot on earth, reluctant at first, it was now impossible to imagine a life elsewhere. She liked it, it liked her, and she could live there for the rest of her days; She didn't have to listen to his mimicry or lie there with him, she wouldn't do it with this not completely cleared up between them.

To do it now was impossible. Not now, not on this bed, not in this room. Back in their clothes, both of them, the physical intimacy nothing but a fading memory that would help them hold on to the idea and the knowledge of what was possible. They could have this. They could have this! But first, their secrets. They had to push them out of the way now that there was clarity of judgement, now that it was impossible to lie and say that she had not missed him, had not missed them, had not missed the idea of a future together. A future, what a glorious thing to have!

She pushed the duvet to the side and got up, the fresh air hitting her naked skin, and grasped for her shirt. Back in their clothes, no longer vulnerable and no longer exposed. This, the moment they had both been waiting for. Back in their clothes, out of this room, away from the memories, escaping themselves, to move forward with courage and honesty, leaping into a whole new life, the past would remain forgotten and at last! Honesty. She didn't want to, it could turn out to be ugly, unsatisfying answers. London Calling, a chance to consider, to pick up the phone and say I want to fight, I want a life! It depended on Fitz, if his apologies and explanations were worth it. But to leave this place! Unimaginable. Wasn't going on and enjoying herself a kind of fight for itself?

"Jemma, did I-"

"My turn to use the loo and then I'll make you that tea."


	21. Freedom and Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1947

 

The water kettle started to whistle, a loud and high pitched sound that filled the kitchen and stopped as soon as Jemma took the kettle from the cooker and poured water into the two cups placed on the counter - steam rising slowly and lifting itself into the air, intricate white patterns that slowly faded away and then vanished altogether. Mesmerizing and distracting, never the same as the one that had preceded them. White cups, fine china, their saucers were slightly chipped and the blue lines, that had once been bright and colourful, now lacked intensity and were washed out - faint, barely visible, the lightest shade of blue. The surface of the liquid inside of them crisp, almost overflowing as Jemma took careful steps towards the kitchen table and placed the cups on the dark wooden surface.

"There you go," said Jemma. "Are you hungry?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure? Because I've got some leftovers. I'm quite a good cook now." She paused. "Milk? Sugar?"

He shook his head and looked outside. The clear blue sky, no sign of bad weather, that was the past, and the vase resting on the windowsill - bright, yellow flowers - the only touch of colour, vivid and not at all washed out. A sweet, flowery smell that filled their nostrils. She played with a packet of cigarettes, fidgeting with the edges, tapping it against the table a couple of times only to push it to the side, out of the way.

"You still smoke?" asked Fitz.

"Every now and then."

"You said we needed to talk. So let's talk," he said, dryly and patiently. Slow words coming out of his mouth, his voice tiresome and peaceful, a sense of surrender oozing through as if he was already at his limits or was close to reach it.

"Yes, let's talk."

Strange, now, to think that things could go smoothly. Strange, now, to think that things could have been easier, required less effort, words coming out of their mouths on command, sentences just poured out in grammatical fashion. But now, as they sat there, the real things, all edges and corners, was awkwardness at its best - they knew what was possible and were trying to hold on to it, firmly, unguibus et rostro, at all cost, but there was also a chasm opening up between them, a relentless force that was pulling them apart, faster and faster, ready to swallow them whole.

"I know more than you think I do," she said at last. "I'm not stupid, you know."

Fitz looked at her in bewilderment and confusion, his blond curls golden in the sunlight and his eyes lighter, his mouth shaped in a perfect _o_.

"You said you went to visit your mother, back in forty-two." She paused, trying to recollect her diary entries. She had read them not long ago, trying to make some sense, trying to find missing details, trying find the moments when thing had started to go wrong. "You said that you'd go to Glasgow to see your mother and then to London to meet your father. But you never went to Glasgow, didn't you?"

He remained silent and expressionless, hardly giving away any feeling or thought. But a flicker in his eyes, a glance, and his fidgeting gave him away. His actions or lack thereof made her bolder and provided her with an elating sense of being in the right.

"We went to Glasgow and your mother said... You always spoke German to her, clever you, Fitz. Clever you. Oh, but she used English - no code switching, no mistakes - and she said, she said that it was good to see you after such a long time, after all those years. Since Cambridge."

"Jemma-"

"Hunter was part of it and Bobbi knew too. Their argument, it wasn't about some private drama it was about something you and Hunter had done. That day Bobbi stormed out of the house, she was angry, furious, a force to be reckoned with. She knew too much, you could dance to whatever tune she decided to sing. I eavesdropped, I saw you... You and Hunter, that day you were panicking like never before. Scared for your lives, were you?"

He looked away, avoiding her gaze.

"You have no idea how much I know, Fitz! Still waters run deep. But you don't know anything, do you? You just think you do, you-" Selfish, arrogant bastard, she wanted to add, but didn't. Instead, she went on and said, "You told the same lie twice, I don't give a damn about the first time. But... Forty three is the first time you went back to Scotland since the beginning of the war. Since the beginning of university. I'm right, am I not?"

"Yes."

"Did you really go to London?"

"Yes, but not to meet my father."

Christ, she wanted to yell, bang her hands on the table and push back her chair. Run away, out of the house, into the garden, for a breath of fresh air. Away from him. Away from the lies and the awareness that there wasn't going to be an easy way out: There were too many lies, and the two of them caught right in the middle of them. Fitz with his powerful connections, of course he could use his father as excuse, no one would even dare go bother Alistair Fitz, and herself a scapegoat. Lucky him.

"Where did you go, Fitz? March forty-three, where were you?"

"Norway."

"Norway?"

"Yes."

"Bloody hell!" She sighed and looked away, covering her face with her hands as she tried to regain some composure. Tranquillity and patience deserted her at once. "I want answers, Fitz. I want straight answers and quickly given."

"I know." He paused, wiping his eyes. His voice faltered as he said, "I'm sorry."

"Tell me the truth, Fitz. For once in your life be honest, tell the truth and shame the devil."

He took a sip of his tea, gently raising the cup and putting the edge next to his lips - a mesmerizing movement, as he parted them - she found herself unable to look at anything else other than that. The details stood out, his hand slightly trembling, and his Adam's apple moving as he gulped: Such a simple and common action. Then, with a light and barely audible tick of porcelain placed on porcelain, the cup was back on its saucers and his hands rested on the table - half way, as if he was waiting for her to take them. She didn't.

"If I do," said Fitz. "If I do, you must listen carefully or you'll miss things, important things. "I, erhm, I will not pause of repeat myself and you will not interrupt me. Please."

"Alright, let's do this."

"Yes. Let's do this."

"What did you do during the war, Fitz?"

"I worked as a translator at Bletchley Park."

"What did you really do during the war, Fitz?"

"Are you paying attention?" He paused. "Good. It's not about the war, Jemma. Well, not all of it anyway."

"What?"

"The war came later."

"So what came first?"

"One of my friends moving back to Germany instead of enrolling into university. He joined the army and I thought..." His voice faltered and he wiped his watery eyes. "He said he wanted to do his part, _Deutschland über alles,_ and for weeks I thought, I honestly believed that- never mind."

Madness, Fitz told her, to go back in thirty seven: Things were bad and the war was just around the corner. Soon, it was inevitable, the chance of reaching compromises was getting slimmer and slimmer, leaving no space for peaceful resolutions. So why thirty seven? Why not sooner, why not wait a couple of months - time to change his mind. Because deep down they both knew that they'd close borders as soon as the war started: No one got out or in, it was the last chance.

"There was and had always been a great deal of ambiguity in his words," Fitz went on. "His father was in the high ranks and he had been part of the _Hitler Jugend_ , it doesn't mean much now. Plenty of kids were, plenty of people who changed their mind and did something. I mean, we were still friends and I had never heard him say anything in his life that would suggest- To make a difference, it could mean anything, really. To do something. To make a difference. It could mean anything, I sent him off without a word."

To make a difference and do something, such simple and ambiguous words had haunted him for weeks. Could he go back, would he do it? Would he find a way to do something? His thoughts had often wondered to his friends and the lack of communication and awkwardness the day of his departure only seemed to enhance and strengthen Fitz's belief that he had indeed joined the fantasy and the clamour of the country. So he, in his small room in Glasgow, about to start his first year at Cambridge, and his thoughts always wondering back to one single conversation. Then the invasion of Poland, his friend was starting to make a career though he would only learn that later, climbing ranks, one after the other. And Fitz, a distant and silent witness to it all, in his room in Cambridgeshire: safe and ashamed.

"One day," he told her. "I got a letter. We used to have a code when we were kids, we considered ourselves very clever at the time, something we came up at school. _Mensch, lass mich bloß in Ruhe!_ , leave me alone, instead of _das tut mir aber wirklich leid_ , I'm sorry. I have no idea how he got that wretched piece of paper out of that country, but he did. That's what matters. It took me days."

One sided correspondence, news and updates coming from inside. There was talk of people helping others flee the country, to Scandinavia, Poland, anywhere other than Germany. There was the first talk of discontent, amongst people of his own age or a couple of years older than him, a feeling that would later turn into the thought of die abscheulichste aller Missgeburten von Regierungen. The letters kept coming, twice a month, always punctual, always on the same day, getting longer and longer, uncensored, he, we were always trying to perfection the code, base it on things we both knew, childhood memories and other things like that.

"And then I met you. You were so beautiful and so easy to be around with, so smart and friendly. I wanted so hard to impress you, spent months trying to come up with something smart enough to tell. I was all corners socially, but you were always under the spotlight. People liked you Jemma, just like that. Oh, I had my fair share of friends, but you... And then we became friends and you were such an extraordinary person, the most apolitical one I had ever met too. You were so eager to do something to help the war effort and I was dying to tell someone my secret and I waited and waited for you to comment on Germany and say something untrue and naive about it, to prove you wrong, but you never did. You just went on with your days, with your mathematics and that anger for not being allowed to study another two years."

She had never dared speak about Germany, he really knew nothing. She had never dared because Fitz was German and their friendship meant more than anything in the world, politics were to be discussed at home or with people before class, with strangers at a bar, but never with Fitz. It was too risky, too fragile - those early and uncertain days of their friendship.

"Then Churchill," she said.

Fitz nodded. "Then Churchill. Collar the Lot and the forced relocations. The anti-German and anti-Italian sentiment grew by the minute."

"And you caught in the middle of it."

"Yes. And there I was untouchable because of my father, God knows what might have happened if it weren't for him. But that need, that urge to prove something to the world was growing stronger. Not everyone's like that and I knew, Jemma. I knew what was going on. The need to prove everyone wrong, I stepped into the game. No way out."

Summer nineteen forty, she had given him the tin box for his most prised possessions. That day, he told her, under the bright sun and surrounded by people walking and children playing, he had thought about telling her that he liked her, loved her, he didn't know how to mince it in love except to directly say those three little words. That day, with the newspapers in his hand, walking away from her as she followed him through the streets, towards the fields, he had considered telling her the truth. Blame it on Churchill, his thoughts had been a mess and she was so naive and innocent, as she stood there in front of him, heads close. He didn't tell her, instead he started to work for his father more frequently and less reluctantly than before. Untouchable, just like she said, meanwhile his father was happy to have Fitz under his influence rather than his mother's - finally, the making of a man, the betrayal of the past, on his way to become a true Englishman.

"It was bigger than me, bigger than my friend in Berlin."

"When did you and Hunter meet? And don't you dare tell me it was Bletchley. The day I met Hunter, you two shared too much comradery, the way he looked at you when you introduced us- as if he was surprised, flabbergasted to have me there at last. He knew about me."

Fitz laughed. "There were days I hardly managed to shut up about you, Hunter kept telling me I should tell you how I felt and finally do something about it. Ask you out for a drink, kiss you and then, that day at the train station... I met Hunter in London, he had just joined the army and we met at Westminster, I think. It's all blurred now. I told him because Hunter is the most loyal person I know and it could come in handy, have someone on the inside who knew what was going to happen. Useless, once he got relocated at Bletchley. At least, useless for the time being."

Back at Cambridge, alone. He had been safe there, in the empty and deserted city, ancient walls keeping his secrets. Then a letter from Bletchley, he came highly recommended - it had been a curse and a blessing. He had not wanted to go. Cambridge had been the only right place for him, to mind his business without having to fear anyone because there was no one there to fear. Bletchley, on the other hand, had too many people and was altogether a security nightmare.

"One night, Hunter and I were talking and Bobbi... The whole time Bobbi had been standing at the door, leaning against the door frame, we should consider ourselves lucky... that it was her and not someone else. An intense row, doors banging, plenty of shouting. Hunter and Bobbi made up alright." He paused. "Bobbi was intelligence, you know that, right? She was able to keep a secret."

"Any debutante who worked at Bletchley would have been able to keep your secret. Perhaps you should have tried to mingle with any of them," she said wryly. She had no intention to tell him that she too was capable of secrecy, her entire career proved it. "But do go on."

A year after the creation of ULTRA, Munich. While the German Wehrmacht was preparing a new military campaign in the southern part of the East front after their defeat close to Moscow, a group of university students started a non-violent, intellectual resistance movement: die Weiße Rose, the White Rose. An anonymous leaflet and graffiti campaign that called for active opposition to the Nazi regime

"They denounced the Nazi's crimes and oppression, called for resistance. Not the only ones, mind you. There were plenty, the Kreiseau Cirle, the Schulze-Boysen/Harnack of the Rote Kapelle," said Fitz. "The White Rose quoted from the Bible, Aristotle, Novalis, Goethe and Schiller, and appealed to the German intelligentsia; Left the leaflets in telephone booths or mailed them to professors and students."

From July to October of the same year the activities had stopped while Willi Graf, Hans Scholl and Alexander Schmorell served at the Russian front. By the end of the year, Scholl's sister Sophie and Kurt Huber had joined too.

"I knew too much, Jemma. And Bletchley... Bletchley was a nightmare. There were plenty of secret already, I just added mine to the mix, but the thing with Bobbi... There was no way I was going to tell you, drag you into it. Time with you was sacred, it was a safe place, and then we kissed and- I... Bletchley had Enigmas, spare ones, you used them yourself, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"Hunter had the keys and gave them to me. It was safer now to encrypt with an Enigma rather than relying on a code that could or not be cracked and I hope you understand why we did that. There were names now, in those monthly exchanges, updates, locations... Enigma was believed to be unbreakable, the string of code would be overlookable. Almost, I guess. Secret radio frequencies, incredible really, the lengths we went."

The Battle of Stalingrad, at the end of January nineteen forty-three, had ended with a near-total loss of the Wehrmacht's Sixth Army. A decisive turn that inspired resistance movements throughout Europe. When the defeat had been officially announced, the White Rose sent out their sixth and last leaflet: Its tone was more patriotic, less intellectual and more polemic. It announced that the _da_ _y of reckoning_ had come for _the most contemptible tyrant our people has ever endured_.

February nineteen forty-three, Ludwig Maximilian University Munich. Actions that one day would be declared unlawful because the Volksgerichtshof was not bound to the law.

"Stop," said Jemma. "I don't want to hear this anymore. I don't want to hear this part."

"The Scholls brought a suitcase full of leaflets to the university main building,  hurriedly dropping stacks of copies in the empty corridors for students to find when they left the lecture rooms, but they were seen Jakob Schmid and taken into Gestapo custody. A draft of a seventh pamphlet, written by Christoph Probst, was found in the possession of Hans Scholl at the time of his arrest by the Gestapo."

There were tears now, rolling down Fitz's cheeks and yet his voice was clear and firm. She would not have it, this was a mistake. He went on, "The Scholls and Probst were scheduled to stand trial before the Volksgerichtshof, were found guilty of treason and sentenced to death. Three trials, the last one in April."

"That night, you came back from London. That was then, wasn't it?"

He merely nodded.

"I couldn't tell you, Jemma. I wanted to, but I couldn't. That night, what was it? Akelei, wasn't it? It became clear to me that there was no way out. Paranoia, secrecy... I couldn't... I couldn't tell you." He exhaled sharply. "There was no right way to tell it. They were looking for a spy in the codebreakers' ranks and with the things I had in my room, you know how it looked like, how it would look like. And tell someone, rumours- A life lived in fear. And you! The only person that mattered."

The defeat of Stalingrad had changed nothing, for Nazi propaganda had merely used it to call on the German people to embrace total war _._ On the same day as the arrests of the Scholl siblings and Probst, Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels had delivered his Sportpalast speech and had been enthusiastically applauded by his audience.

"I went to Norway because the text of the Sixth leaflet was smuggled out of Germany, through Scandinavia to England by the German lawyer and member of the Kreisau Circle, Helmut James Graf von Moltke. Translations, that part wasn't a lie." He paused and looked out of the window. " _Freiheit und Ehre! Der deutsche Name bleibt für immer geschändet, wenn nicht die deutsche Jugend endlich aufsteht, rächt und sühnt zugleich, ihre Peiniger zerschmettert und ein neues geistiges Europa aufrichtet._ Later that year, copies were dropped over Germany by Allied planes."

Meanwhile they had closed ranks around her, half saddened, half angered. She understood him and his choices, it was difficult not to, but if it was no longer a matter of some isolated people, if the Allied forces had been dragged into it, why not open up? To her, to anyone, really.

"Why didn't you-"

That night when she had found his papers, it would have been the perfect opportunity to open up.

"Because it wasn't bloody over, was it, Jemma? There were still two more years to go and Bletchley... Bletchley! God, I couldn't do it anymore. Wake up every day and... I left months after Unternehmen Walküre, I couldn't do it anymore. The anxiety, it was too much. I asked father to move me to London, say that he needed me, find me a place somewhere in the War Office or anything where my skills could be used."

"What happened to your friend?"

"Executed for high treason. Towards the end. And then there was me safe in England, with my father covering up and all those powerful connections. The never ending guilt, I should have done something-"

"That... That's too much. I've got to leave. I don't want to listen to you anymore."

"I sacrificed our relationship, I know that and I'm sorry. But I'd do it all again, over and over." He paused and looked at her with watery eyes, vulnerable, raw and exposed. "But at some point you started to make everything about yourself."

"Don't you dare!" She cut him off. "Don't you dare finish that sentence. I had every right-"

"After Glasgow, you were so self-centred and self-absorbed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Kreisau Circle: a group of German dissident swho met in the rural town of Kreisau, Silesia.  
> \- The Red Orchestra (Die Rote Kapelle) or Red Chapel was the name given by the Gestapo to anti-Nazi resistance workers during World War II.  
> \- Freiheit und Ehre! Der deutsche Name bleibt für immer geschändet, wenn nicht die deutsche Jugend endlich aufsteht, rächt und sühnt zugleich, ihre Peiniger zerschmettert und ein neues geistiges Europa aufrichtet: Freedom and honour! The name of Germany is dishonored for all time if German youth does not finally rise, take revenge, and atone, smash its tormentors, and set up a new intellectual Europe.  
> \- Unternehmen Walküre (operation Valkyrie): 20 July Plot. An attempt to assassinate Hitler, wrest political control of Germany and its armed forces from the Nazi Party (including the SS) and make peace with the Western Allies. It was the culmination of efforts by several groups in the German resistance to overthrow the Nazi German government and its failure led the Gestapo to arrest more than 7,000 people, of whom they executed 4,980.  
> \- There's a movie about the last days in the life of Sophie Scholl: Sophie Scholl - the Final Days.  
> \- The Gereon Rath series by Volker Kutscher paints an interesting picture of Nazi Germany and the years leading up to 1933. There's an incredible amount of research behind each book and I highly recommend them, if anything, they're very good detective novels.


	22. Thig Math à Mulad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1947

 

The clock chimed four.

Jemma looked at it, the telephone still in her hand - cold, black plastic under her slightly sweated palm - and carefully studied the pointer's slow and persistent motion as they relentlessly ticked the time away. It was a transfixing and clockwise movement, never ending, each second that passed was time she could never get back, time that was distancing her from the past, time that was distancing her from Fitz, from the time spent together, all of it, even the sex, and from his heartbreaking and honest confession. Carefully chosen and archaic words that would no doubt haunt her for years: How could she not have realized that history was much more complicated than she thought it to be?

One minute past four.

On the other end of the line, a familiar voice calling her name - male, distant, unclear and almost an echo as if she was merely dreaming and someone was calling her back to reality. Awake at last! It was a vague sound, a slurred sound that seemed to stretch itself to infinity and beyond, never ending and painfully slow in its articulation. Each vowel and each consonant getting longer and longer, barely reaching her.

The black pointer trembled as it moved.

Two minutes past four.

There was still time. Time to run after Fitz and prove him wrong - not for the first time, not for the last time. Time to tell him to stop, stay and listen. Time to admit that she had made a terrible mistake by sending him away in such a hurry and without so many words - out of the door and into the street, his figure getting smaller and smaller as he walked away, no longer visible from the window. Time to clear things up once and for all - away with the misunderstandings and the silent accusations, away with the regrets and the little resentment that was still lingering inside her, the truth revealed at last.

He had called her self-centred and self-absorbed proving that he knew nothing at all. Surely, if he did know anything about her or her life or the last two years at Bletchley, he would have never spoken such harsh and angry words. Fitz wasn't like that, he always seemed to try his best to understand, to listen, to pay attention. Surely he was less embittered than she was, still seeing the good in things despite everything that happened around him: That was Fitz. It was irritating to see how eager he was to do the right thing. Sometimes, in the past, at Cambridge, he would refuse to call her out and if he had once in their lives said to her  _you idiot_ or _you lemon_ , he might have done something to bring them together.

Such an incredible change, for there they were: he had called her self-centred and self-absorbed, she had called a selfish and arrogant bastard. They were equals. They were equals and could go back, rewind time and resume without erasing it the past and without it interfering between them. They could treasure it in their hearts, make it theirs and say that they had learned the lesson the hard way - a long time ago they had brought out the best in each other, recently they had brought out worst. Never again. They could resume and become friends again, help each other heal and live! For there was still time. Time to change her mind, after all that was what it was for. Time to run after him and tell him that there were those who did and those who didn't - they could be the sort that did.

Time, the greatest gift of all. Everything was different now: New and familiar at the same time. There was no space for arguments, not any more, only for truth and honesty. They were older and changed, a little bit wiser: It was time to admit that they had reached their limits without trying to prevent it from happening - moving inertly towards the end, almost looking forward to it for it would grant them peace. It was time to admit that things had started to go wrong long before nineteen forty-four, and it had been their fault. Not his, not hers, theirs - they shared equal amounts of blame.

Time, the greatest gift of all. There had been beauty once and there could be again, wasn't the beginning of the time they had spent together proof enough? And they both had a life now, albeit hers had been unexpected and had been imposed on her. It was a good life, why not share it? They cared for each other, they missed each other, she loved him, why not be honest and tell him everything?

Three minutes past four.

"Miss Simmons?"

"Never mind."

"I say-"

She hung up, fumbling with the speaker before it finally fitted on the phone.

Two trains back to London: One at half past four and one at seven. The one at seven had to do. She had changed her mind and if she were to take her bicycle and quickly pedal downhill, she'd reach him in time. The ticket, by now he must have bought it. he could use it later.

She walked towards the door, picking her coat from the hanger and putting it on - one swift movement, her fingers trembled as she tried to button it up and ultimately left it open. There was no time to waste, she slammed the door behind her, stuffing the keys into her pockets and stepping inside her rain boots - the green material encrusted with mud, her tweed trousers crumpled, she did not fix them.

To grant forgiveness, explain and apologize. The kitchen clock's pointers moved.

Five minutes past four.

The air was fresh but the sun, which by now was shining brightly, was warm. The first proper day of Spring. Jemma shook her head, her hair dancing around her face, as she pedalled quicker and quicker, her hands firmly holding the handlebar - a small distraction would be enough to slip on the muddy soil, a small and trivial incident nothing but wasted time. Down the street and into a puddle, the dust covered surface broke and the water splashed onto the gravel ground, she moved on.

Past the old church, a kid in a bright yellow coat waved at her with enthusiasm and a dog run after her for a moment before turning back, wiggling its tail in delight. She raised a hand a half-finished greeting and on she went - houses getting lesser and lesser, open fields with some lazy cows standing there and eating grass, and Fitz walking, almost swaggering down the road.

"Fitz!" She shouted, braking carefully and stepping down her bike. "Stop!"

He turned around and looked at her, puzzledly.

"Are you here for a self-moralistic lecture, Jemma?" he asked at last.

She shook her head and reached him, dragging her bike through the mud. "I'm here to... Let's just walk."

"I'd like to, but the train-"

"You can catch the seven o'clock one and still be home in time." She paused. "Please."

"You were the one who sent me off."

"I know and I'm sorry."

"Alright then."

They walked in silence with Jemma's bicycle between them, he offered to push it for her and she refused - selbst ist die Frau, he joked and laughed before changing side so as to walk beside her. Down the road, she left her bike at the train station taking her time as she locked it up, he watched her, studied her every movement, she felt his eyes on her - on her back as he waited for her to be done.

Hands occasionally brushing, fingers curling and lingering on skin, always close to lace but they lacked the courage to do it and pretended not to notice and yet - an all but irresistible impulse! His hand only inches away.

Though the grass, headed to the shore. Behind them, the village was getting smaller and smaller and the train station nothing but a small spot at their backs. A distant noise, getting fainter and fainter, a low whistle, coming with a crescendo: an express train, the four thirty one. For a moment Fitz turned his head as if he was considering running towards it as fast as he could, strong headed and certain that he would make it back in time and thus securing a safe trip back to London as he had originally planned. To go would mean revenge or fear of the future, but he didn't move, the noise nothing but a mere distraction as he kept on walking, following her, his own personal guide in such a foreign surrounding.

Jemma looked at him, studying him silently, his profile so well known, familiar features she knew down to every detail - as familiar as her own. He looked jumpy and restless as he nervously fidgeted with his hands and his gaze moving from spot to spot, and at the same time at ease with himself - what a peculiar thing to happen. Perhaps, by the time the second train came, in the spring's dusk, she too would be at ease with herself and they could finally move on, start again, free of all their mistakes and no longer tied to the past. To move on! Towards the future as she tried to imitate that simple mental trick that everyone else seemed to have already perfected: No howling ghosts reappearing at inappropriate times, late at night, as she lay on an empty bed; No longing and no regret, looking at the past and feeling oppressed by it. To the Future! With Fitz, he didn't have anyone in his life and she had never been happier in her life to hear that he didn't have a sweetheart - not even her first months at Bletchley compared, worrying that he had met someone more interesting, someone who wasn't her, some lovely girl he might have married. Excellent news, if he was happy.

"This." He paused. "This is amazing. I can see the appeal of living here."

The sea, glistening and glittering under the bright spring sun, looked as alive as ever as it hit against the pebbled shore - trails of white froth left in its wake. The colours were intense for the first time in weeks - blues, whites and greens. A spectacle to behold.

"I know, right? It's not bad once you get used to it. Not bad at all."

"Better than London, that's for sure."

"Indeed."

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier, about you and this place." He looked at her and took her hand - gently, taking his time. "I didn't mean it to sound wryly and unsympathetic. You look at home, Jemma. You look more at home here than in any other place I've seen you before."

"That's because it is home." She smiled.

They studied each other wearily and shyly, with a touch of tenderness, with a hint of sorrow and desperation in their eyes, unsure of what to say. There must have been something, something right, something that would not expose them further and would not sound like an accusation that was ultimately bound to abruptly end whatever truce had created itself in the past couple of hours. Words were slippery, out of their reach, wrong - but it was never easy. An extraordinary matter, not feeling the impulse to run away.

"I'm tired of not saying what I want to say," she said at last, exhaling sharply, the words coming out in a quick sequence of syllables - faster and faster, like an express train. The urgent need to get to the end before she had the time to change her mind and remain silent, words blocked at the back of her throat or on the tip of her tongue, lacking the strength and the clarity to speak them out loud.

"Then say it, Jemma."

"You called me self-centred and self-absorbed."

"You were! After Glasgow- There were days I could hardly listen to you, all your entitlement and... All of a sudden everything was about you. From one day to the next."

"Fitz-"

"I told you-"

"Don't you dare." She stopped and looked away. "Don't you dare say it was for my sake!"

It was all coming back now, no way of stopping it. They were doing this, she thought, they were really doing this and perhaps, soon, she'd be free of it all - a weight lifted from her shoulders. A freeing and liberating feeling, she should have done it sooner. Who cared if he didn't know anything about it, it was her turn to resent him and tell him what she had thought of him for such a long time.

"You left before I could leave you, Christ!" She sighed, anger was boiling inside her and a mawkish sense of being in the right was taking her over. She put her hands on her face, recollecting her thoughts, trying to make sense of them and give them some sort of order, lets they came out in an undistinguishable mess, before she looked at him again.

"You were so desperate to avoid your loop that you created one of your own. You left, Fitz! And this situation, this life... it could have been bearable with you! So you got what? Your posh life in London while  I get reported on every week. You thought you were doing good Fitz and you were, you were! But I'm the one who got thrown to the fucking wolves! They closed ranks and Alistair Fitz's son got away untouched." Jemma went on.

"What?"

"You destroyed me to save yourself! You said I was self-centred and self-absorbed, but you really don't know, do you? You don't know anything, you just stood there all hoity-toity because you had your own thing going on, you were so enwrapped with it, it consumed all of your time, all of your thoughts." She paused. "After Glasgow..."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he yelled at her. His hands were shaking.

"There were rumours about a spy at Bletchley Park. We'll never know the truth. Akelei. It seemed, seems rather likely to have had a spy at Bletchley Park, altogether a security nightmare. I was one of the first who got questioned, taken in to be interrogated, and ultimately used as scapegoat. This life-" She sobbed and turned around. "Between the saddle and the ground you swear that you never did a dishonourable action, how could anyone live with that?"

She wanted to scream in a crescendo of rage and emotions, her voice getting louder and louder, syllables no longer distinguishable, grammatical fashion completely abandoned. A scream - primordial and desperate - at the back of her throat, but nothing apart from a dead sound came out of her mouth as she opened it. Another sob. There she was, getting higher and higher looking at it all from a distance, her and Fitz standing on a pebbled ground - motionless, a scene frozen in time, the only thing that moved were the waves with their rustling and rattling, a soft sound that added up to that of the seagulls. Somewhere else, a different version of her: Able to articulate a simple and basic sentence or to let it all for the first time, for the last time; But that version wasn't her and would never become real.

Jemma's face contorted into a grimace of pain, lips pressed together and closed fists, fingernails digging into her skin. There were tears now, running silently down her cheeks and falling onto her coat - the droplets left a wet trail on the light fabric. How long had she been holding it all back? How long had she thought about crying it all out? It was all a blur, days with a dreamlike atmosphere that had no spatial or temporal coordinates to hold them down. A quagmire. The tears and the pain  had gathered, hour after hour, day after day, and it now felt as if a dam had been broken and her feelings were free of restriction years and she was as bold in it as she was in arguments and talking.

Fitz stretched out his hand tentatively, a long time passed before she finally felt his touch on her shoulder. A hesitant gesture. A light touch as if he was ready to pull it away, as if he was half expecting for her to say so. She was half expecting herself to tell him to go, beg him one last time to leave her alone and not witness the seams coming off, the undoing of a carefully established facade that was coming undone at light's speed. Her trembled fingers reached his and held them tight, not wanting to let go and, then she turned around.

But it hadn't always been like this, she thought. Why be ashamed of having feelings? Why hold on to that constant and never ending internalization? Poison, from one generation to the other, it had to stop somewhere. A distant past - openness, easiness, and without shame, It was that past she was now trying to hold on to and it was that past that was now coming back in its entirety. Embalmed in her memory, unabridged and the more unforgotten, it hadn't seen the light of day in years. Unspoken resentments were vanishing and whatever wrongs had been done through the years ceased to exist. The whole world seemed to be moving around them, bringing them further back in time and not allowing them to stand cold-hearted and self-righteously on that beach in the fresh spring air.

"I- I." she didn't finish, her throat was too dry and her mind incapable of coherent thoughts - they were going staccato, galloping, out of her reach. Her mouth opened and closed, gasping. Tears rolling down her cheeks, the whole world blurry and watery, and sobs! Exhaustion and an inhibited show off of emotions - there was a certain amount relief that came from it. It was worth it.

Fitz stepped closer to her, arms stretched out eventually closing around her. He held her close and there he was without judgement and Jemma with her head resting on his chest her tears coming down in a flow and wetting his coat and in that moment it didn't matter what they really thought of each other or had once thought of each other: they didn't care, she didn't care. The truth was one and one only: They were best friends in the world again and could be such for as long as it took them to offer comfort and accept it, one simple fact behind it all: after all this time they still couldn't let each other go, they couldn't turn their backs and pretend that Jemma wasn't standing there about to fall apart and that he was feeling nothing at all. Pain, especially hers, was no longer insular nor was it incommunicable - she could let herself go. His hands moved to her shoulders and his thumbs moved in slow, circular movements of comfort.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

It was his apology, his inevitable empathy that marked the ultimate transformation. Safe in his embrace, with his head resting on her shoulders and his arms around her, holding her close, she talked and talked about those painful years and sorry months of her decline and fall. For the first time, a never ending flow of words, as if a dam had broken: She had considered telling him, she had fantasized about telling him in hundreds of different ways. Nothing compared. Nothing seemed to fit. They had always travelled towards this moment, their times had run towards it. This had always been the only way, it was clear now - a simple thing, easily overlooked.

"I loved you and I think you loved me," she whispered as soon as she was done.

There! A hidden secret revealed at last, in the past tense rather than the present because it was all a mess now, a mess of feelings, a mess of people, a mess of a life. But it didn't matter as long as there was hope. Hope! What a glorious thing to have and hold onto. She added, "For a long time."

It had been true once and could become true again, with time and patience and an immense amount of effort. Honesty and clarity of judgement! Precision and endurance! They could get it all back if they wanted to. It was time for healing, it was time to resume and live! Live! To the future! To the time that would come, time spent getting acquainted again - these new and disillusioned versions of themselves, these saddened versions of themselves, so aware of loss, so different from those two eighteen year olds who had once met at Cambridge.

"Yes," he said. "What do we want to make about that? What do you want, Jemma?"

"I don't know."

A life together, when the time was right. It was a strange, familiar and irresistible impulse: wanting to know everything about him. How was Cambridge? How was Hunter? How was Bobbi? How many people she knew were still at Cambridge? Was he writing that book? Did he still want to write it? They had a connection, but had spent most of their time together hardly doing any talking. Now, she wanted to talk and never stop doing so until she she knew everything about him.

"I want to be friends. I want to start over. I want to know who you are and I want you to know who I am, Fitz. No more secrets."

"I say," he said. "What a ludicrous thing for you to say.That is, I want the same thing, Jemma."

"Yes?"

"Yes." He half-sobbed, half-whispered.


	23. In the Bleak Midwinter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

1951

 

The smell of beer, sweat and cigarettes filled the air and impregnated it. It was a smell that filled people's nostrils and left an impression, a smell that one would hardly consider associating with such a fancy place. Poignant and unpleasant, it didn't seem to match the rest of the picture: well-dressed waiters who carried around shiny and polished silver trays with elegant flutes of champagne on them. It was hardly a clean and fresh smell with it mouldy and dusty undertones, but it was the smell of everyday life and, with its peculiar nature, helped to soften all edges and made the restaurant appear less ceremonial, less pompous and more affordable.

An interesting if somehow odd mix, in-between upper and working class, completely transformed and unique. Everyone could go there and celebrate if the occasion called for it: a fancy and simple dinner, as much as the shortage allowed, and live music played on Fridays and at the weekend. One didn't have to have some important family name or a  family that could be traced back for centuries, to the Norman invasion, to go there and have a good time for here people were equals and they didn't seem to care that they were not. People could forget themselves and mingle, interact for an evening, tryst, impress each other. The place had a reputation to uphold and lived up to all the expectations, all the talking and all the high hopes.

Jemma took a sip of water and looked up, catching a glimpse of Hunter and Bobbi on the dance floor - brief and fleeting as the scene became an indistinguishable swirl of bodies and dresses: her blonde hair, his face. She smiled as she watched them, studying them carefully, their every movements, as they moved with ease on the wooden floorboards looking as smitten and besotted as ever - even now, years later, it was impossible to say where lust ended and love begun. They hadn't changed at all and still had the habit of making the whole world participant to their private dramas, it was nice to know that some things were and would always be the same, that both Hunter and Bobbi joked about their second and third chance - third time's a charm, eh? - but beneath all the humour and all their attempts to show themselves indifferent and less vulnerable was real and warm affection, deep caring and strong feelings.

Perhaps, she thought, it had always been about new beginnings. It had always been about not giving up. About second chances, strong headedness, different choices and making it right. For Bobbi, for Hunter, for her, for Fitz. For everyone! Courage in moving on despite the past. To wake up every morning with the intention to live and go in with one's life as millions of others were already doing. Live, heal, shape the future and never give up: chasing hope and happiness. Every single person did it differently, however it suited them, not two were alike.

The air was vibrant and alive, energetic. How fitting this location was: no other place would match this one, no other would even compare or mirror the uniqueness of their lives so perfectly. It matched Hunter and Bobbi too: loud, exaggerated and dramatic - in a very peculiar way. The perfect conclusion for their wedding vows renewal, Thanksgiving for marriage, something that apparently was quite popular across the pond and was only bound to get bigger in the upcoming decade. The latest trend, Bobbi had told her, plenty of acquaintances had already done it or were planning to do it but in Bobbi's case it was the most appropriate solution; After all, she and Hunter were already married and could hardly get married again.

Jemma got up, gently pushing her chair back and then pushing it back under the table so as not to have it stand in the way, and made her way through the crowd of people just as the band was starting to play a different song. The music got louder with a dramatic and somehow sudden crescendo, a series of fortes and frenzy semiquavers, and filled the air, covering all conversation and causing people to talk louder and louder, until they were shouting in a desperate attempt to be heard above the music. It was a lively rhythm, a quick rhythm, that made her tap her fingers against her leg and slightly move her head as she walked from one end of the room to the other - past the windows. Outiside the night calm and the sky studded with stars, the full moon and its pallid silver light.

A couple of familiar faces and nods of acknowledgment. It seemed that even there, thirty minutes away from home, it was impossible to escape from her everyday life and acquaintances. Colleagues and friends, two former students of hers who stood in a corner and sipped champagne - one of the was already tipsy, her eyes misty, the other gave her a brief summary of their lives now and joked about their former schooldays. Jemma stopped to talk with them and some other people but her eyes were always looking at Fitz, eager to reach him, eager to go and talk to him, eager to be in his company again. It had been going on for the entire evening - she couldn't take her eyes off him no matter how hard she tried. Fitz who was standing at the bar, a glass of wine in his hand. Half empty, the liquid dark under the artificial light. Talking to one of the waiters, the flutes of champagne on the waiter's silver tray partially covered Fitz's face. A laugh.

She dismissed herself and walked faster.

"Have I told you how splendid you look tonight?" she asked as she took place beside him.

Their fingers brushed, his skin was warm against hers, and curled at the brief contact. It was a soft, light and precious touch. It was lingering touch that promised and meant more than it gave away. Neither of them wanted to pull away, break it any time soon, and she, for one, would not be the one to initiate the parting. It was insignificant but had to do. Unsatisfying too, but they could hardly give Hunter and Bobbi's party a miss - sneak away to his hotel room or, even better, back to her house. Out of their clothes and into bed: an alluring and tantalizing prospective. She was too sober to voice it out loud.

"No, you did not." He beamed at her, his entire face lighting up and his gaze - longing, it gave away all the fondness and love. "But thank you, because I'm feeling very uncomfortable."

They laughed. It bubbled up at the back of their throats and came out inhibited and crystal clear. It was a carefree laugh that wasn't being held back by worries and was enhanced by the awareness that they were there, that they had made it, that they were on the winning side and had been so for some time now despite the ups and downs and the hard work and effort it had taken them. It would always be worth it.

The first year had not been the most difficult, but it hadn't been easy either. It had been the year where they had to face the question: how to rebuilt a relationship when you were also mourning one? Different versions of themselves forever lost in time. It hadn't been Fitz to be afraid of ending in a loop of misery, sorrow and unhappiness: It had been her. All along. And she had spent more time looking out for possible warning signs than she had spent enjoying herself and leap, feet first into the unknown.

For the entirety of nineteen forty seven, or what remained of it, they had been distant, cold and aloof. Polished surfaces and volcanoes inside - a mess of feelings, a mess of thoughts, and no way to escape them and make sense of it all. They had been prisoners of their own fears and their history had stood between them and happiness. They had spent weeks, if not months, retreating: each question met either by silence or elusive answers that ultimately meant nothing. At the same time, they had discussed the terms of their new relationship only to discover that they had talked too much, that they had been too rational and had avoided their feelings like the plague, hardly ever relying on them. Talking and sex was something they were good at, something they knew how it worked, a safe space that had allowed them to avoid confusion and embarrassment.

It had been fake and lacked depth: they had build up a facade and spent their time together pretending that they could start from scratch. Leopold James Fitz and Jemma Anne Simmons, two perfect strangers, perfect pretenders, that had been trapped in a limbo, between two extremes: knowing and not knowing each other. It had been impossible to overlook the friendship and the love so why not step over the inanities and reach for the larger thought: I love you, will you spend the rest of your life with me. It would not do, and they had made an effort so as to learn how to talk, how to be honest and how to live. It had been worth it.

To go away and give the party a miss, the thought refused to leave her alone. He was bound to leave for Glasgow on Monday for her had promised his mother that he'd be home for Channukah. Leaving now would mean more time just for them and the chance to get rid of the wretched dress she was wearing.

Jemma took a sip of his wine.

"Do you dance?" she asked, leaning forwards and whispering into his ear. Her breath, she thought, was, without any doubt, ticklish against his skin. And the simple gesture, born out of necessity, had something erotic to it.

"Are you asking me?"

She nodded. "Yes, why not?"

"I thought you were upset with me."

"Why would I be upset with you, Fitz?"

"I don't know, you tell me." He paused and looked at her. "You've been terribly quiet as of late."

"It's nothing, really. I was thinking... I was thinking about getting a dog."

"If you do, will you let me name it?"

"Why?"

"Because I've got the perfect name already. I think I've had it since I was ten."

"Get your own dog, Fitz."

"Excellent, even better! We can have to and name them Pünktchen and Anton," he replied matter-of-factly. "No need to choose."

She sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. "So, will you dance with me?"

"Only if you ask me properly."

"Alright then." She stretched out her hand, palm up, and waited for Fitz to take it. "Leopold James Fitz, will you dance with me?"

He laughed. "Yes, why not."

Jemma smiled and took his hand. In that moment, with the two of them standing next to each other in a crowded room, it felt as if she had never loved him more or more hopelessly. If only things could stay like that forever: Forever happy! Forever in love! Forever together! To share a life and time no longer limited to weekends that were always over before they begun - time together always coming to an end, their eyes always looking at the clock. But now! In the bleak midwinter, together, nothing standing between them and no impending train journeys. Time was infinite and it was the closest they had ever gotten to a life together.

With their hands entwined they walked to the dance floor.

The second year had been the one where one of their rendezvous was brusquely interrupted by the doorbell ringing just as she and Fitz had been about to ungallantly fall on her bed - their clothes already discarded, hungry mouths and fumbling hands, the tin box of French letters falling onto the floor, its contents spilled everywhere. Later, after a long and excruciating afternoon tea, they had been alone again: safe, home in each other's embrace. They had already begun in the corridor and had consumed their relationship - they were quite good at it, they understood it, but were still out of their depths when it came to the rest. He had told her that he loved her and she had said it back with slightly more emphasis as if she had been the one to say it first.  

Nineteen forty eight had also been the year Fitz finished university and stopped working for his father. All his belongings in one suitcase and a couple of boxes filled with books, a one-way ticket to Glasgow: free and headed home. He had asked her to follow him and she had refused: she already had a life, a good one, that liked her as much as she liked it, so why following him into the unknown on a whim? She could do it. It was temporary. She would not play with fate. Another row. The four o'clock train. Silence.

"What time are you leaving?" he asked her.

"I don't know yet."

"You could stay for the night," he replied, smirking.

"I can't. Well, I could, but I don't want to." She paused. Bobbi and Hunter had offered to cover all the expenses, but it was unfair to abuse their friendship when she could just as easily drive back home. Thirty minutes -ish, it would be stupid to stay. "And I've got to get the car back. I'd rather not do it in a hurry."

"It's really difficult to tryst with you, Jemma."

She laughed. "I'm sorry, Fitz."

"Don't be." He stopped and opened his mouth only to close it again soon after. After a moment he went on and said, "Another time then."

"Yes, another time. We could go away for a couple of days, once you're back, we could go to the sea. Where no one knows us. If we're going to tryst, let's do it properly." She joked.

The third year had been the one she spent finding the words to tell him that technically, technically, she could ask for help and find a way to solve things. From January to June she had thought about telling him, from July to September she had tried to find the words and then, on a cold autumn morning, the truth had come out. He had been hurt and angered - the she was keeping secrets once more: harsh and angry words on both sides. He had not asked her the reason behind her decision but she had told him anyway: an incoherent speech that lacked any sort of grammatical fashion. Staying in Sussex was her way to keep control and leave the past behind. Her own personal safe space that shielded her from the world.

Nineteen forty nine: the year of tedious commutes and train journeys up and down the country. Time always coming to an end. Forgiveness and understanding. Sad smiles and watery eyes at every departure. Fitz had spent more time in Sussex than she had in the County of London or Glasgow City.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself," she said.

"I am. I'm having the time of my life."

"I know it's hardly like nightlife in London. It isn't, is it?"

"No, though that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. I've been thinking... This isn't bad at all." He paused and held her closer. "You should see the nightlife in Berlin."

"One day, maybe."

"Yes, maybe."

At the beginning of the fourth year they had looked after the ten year old niece of one of her colleagues. Family: a topic they had never discussed before. They were turning thirty and were behind everyone else - or so it felt most of the time. That afternoon Fitz had told the girl that in German you said _mit dem ist es nicht gut Kirschen zu essen,_ it's no good to each cherries with them, to say it was difficult to get along or deal with someone. The girl had laughed and Jemma had looked at them as the realization that perhaps Fitz wanted to be a father had slowly started to settle in the air between them. That same night, at dinner, she told him that she didn't want children: not because she'd have to stay at home to look after them, she didn't care and would do it gladly, but because of history, because she didn't want to get pregnant, because she didn't want to bring a child into this world. Fitz's answer a smile _oh!_ but his eyes had given him away - surrender and acceptance so as to avoid another argument. It had pushed them back months. What if she was the one standing between him and his ideal life? He'd be a great father and there she was, always asking him things and never giving anything back. Sussex, no children, how many times would he have to give up and settle for her decision? No, better for Fitz to know and do whatever he wanted with that trivial piece of information: She would never trick him into thinking that they were trying to have children by secretly using a Dutch cap. She knew people who did it and Fitz didn't deserve it. Free choice, he could walk away.

In nineteen fifty Fitz had moved back to Germany. A sudden decision announced at breakfast a couple of weeks before his departure - looking back, it could be seen as a direct consequence to their argument about children. She had taken him to the train station - Waterloo, eight o'clock in the morning, and looked at him with tears rolling down her cheeks, thinking - not this again. The thought of him leaving, unbearable. His departure constantly rescheduled: weeks turning into months, months into a whole year. Perhaps he liked Germany better and had decided to stay there forever, a whole new life, away from her, back home.

That year she had met his mother  and asked her: Is it possible? Does it work? For there they were, in two different countries, stuck in their godforsaken loop and sending each other superficial letters that lacked feelings and followed all sorts of formalities - dearest, yours sincerely, truly, affectionately, they were that kind of precise imbeciles. She had also spent time in Sheffield, at her parents', avoiding all questions about Fitz, dodging them like bullets, and crying herself to sleep. He had always had a way with words and every description of his hurt - a sharp pain at her heart: Descriptions of home, of people he knew, of a country that was foreign to her. She had Sussex with all its familiar people, people she liked, people who had always welcomed her, and the cows she secretly liked to name and greet. How could she ever compete with an entire country?

"I like it here." He said, calmly. There was an odd sense of honesty, as if those four little words were a long due reassurance and admission, as if he had rehearsed such a short speech for a long time while also considering the possibilities. "I'd like it anywhere as long as you are there too. I mean it, Jemma, I don't care if we're in Glasgow, London, on the bloody moon."

"Oh, Fitz, you don't mean that."

"No, I do! I've been thinking about it for a long time. I know that we've been on the edge of this so many times in the past and that moving to Germany and delaying the departure without giving any explanation was as selfish as it was needed."

"There's a but coming, isn't there?"

"But I wouldn't be happy anywhere else or with anyone else as long as you're in Sussex and walk the earth."

"What about our arguments?"

He chuckled. "Jemma, we're going to quarrel and fight about any number of other things. Some more serious than others."

"I know, it's always been like that."

"And always will be. Inevitable, really."

"So you don't think we should be brave and back away now? While there's still time."

He shook his head. "No. Unless you want to call it all off, because I don't."

"No." She paused. "I feel the same way you do."

"Good."

"I say, that's excellent." She paused. "Can I kiss you, Fitz, because I very much need to."

A brush of lips, on the dance floor, in public. Together in the bleak midwinter, an entire life ahead of them. To the future!

Together, with their hands still entwined, they walked back to their table and ordered another drink. Things were serious now, lacking the humour of before and all she could think of as she longingly looked at him was the life they could have if there was the courage to leap and reach for the larger thought at once! To wake up beside him every day of the week, the best part of her day happening before she was even up.

"Will you help me?" she asked, suddenly, breaking the silence.

"With what?"

"Life, everything-"

"You want me to stay?"

"Tonight and forever, my love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Pünktchen und Anton (Annaluise & Anton) is a children's book by Erich Kästner (1931).


End file.
